There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs. Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and the water was put in--and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right temperature--warm--mellow--comforting. Outside the window was a thrush who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice. And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom, a lump came into Isabel's throat--hot, angry and convulsive. For somewhere out beyond was her man--facing unknown dangers, taking terrible risks, followed by relentless men. Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left her--deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who commands us all--that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings, pence.] She put her tea cup on the tray with a little tinkle and suddenly covered her eyes with the palms of her hands. "Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Why couldn't he have been satisfied?" "What is it, my dear?" "Money," she answered with a staggering breath. "Money. And it couldn't buy a moment that was as sweet as this." The fair curly head tilted forward into the black silk lap. Mrs. Barraclough's hands went round the girl's shoulders and held them tight. They were shaking so. A clergyman passing down the road halted for a moment and peered over the yew hedge into the open windows of the room. But nobody took any notice of him and he couldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises with which one woman will comfort another. Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the fabric of her gown. CHAPTER 16. A HYPHEN. When first the question of radium arose in this chronicle it will be remembered that Barraclough, under considerable pressure, yielded the secret of the map reference to his fiancee, and by this very act made a present of it, through the pages of narrative, to whosoever might chance to read.