She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house. Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant approached, and saluted her respectfully. "The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to speak to him?" "How tiresome!" she exclaimed petulantly. "Where is my father?" "By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke," replied the man, softly. "He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once." This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood. "He might have come to me," said Helen, impatiently. "I am so hot and tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path." The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain seized the opportunity to join her. "It is getting cold and damp, Miss Perowne," he said, softly. "Will you let me put this over your shoulders?" "What!" she said; "have you been carrying that ever since I gave it to you hours ago?" The chaplain bowed, and held the light, filmy shawl, that he had felt it a joy to bear, ready to throw over her shoulders. "No," she cried, petulantly, "I am too hot as it is. There," she cried, relenting, as she saw his fallen countenance, and for want of another victim, "you may come with me and carry the shawl till I want to put it on." The chaplain's heart gave a bound, and, too pleased to speak, he followed Helen closely, as the man led her towards the bottom of the lawn, where, as they drew nearer, a dark figure could be dimly seen slowly pacing up and down. "How angry dear Mary would be if she knew," thought the Reverend Arthur; "but I cannot help it. I suppose I am very weak, and it is my fate?" "What is wrong now?" thought Helen, whose conscience was quick to take alarm. "Is he going to speak to me about Hilton? No; he would not have--he could not have been so cowardly as to speak to my father about our quarrel." They were very near now, and Helen could see that her father had one hand up to his face, resting the elbow in his other hand. "It cannot be about Murad. That must be over," mused Helen. Then aloud, "Is anything the matter, papa? Are you unwell?" At that moment she realised the fact that the figure in evening dress was not her father, the chaplain noticing her start, and trying to go forward to her aid; but, as he took a step, a hand was clapped over his lips, an arm tightly embraced him, and as he dimly saw a white handkerchief tied across Helen's face, he was lifted from the ground and borne away, too much surprised to do more than struggle weakly at such a disadvantage that even a strong man would have been as helpless as a child.