"You've nothing to thank me for; I'm sure you are innocent, and so I don't consider the circumstantial evidence; but you might not be as lucky another time. I hope this will be a lesson to you. I need hardly caution you to silence," and he appeared to peruse some papers to ease the young officer's exit from the room. That evening in the privacy of the library, the Lieutenant confided the news of his lucky escape to his wife, ending up with the question: "Do you think the Fitzgerald really loves him?" "My dear Jack," said Lady Isabelle, "a woman of that stamp does not know what love means, she's simply scheming to marry him for his money. How can people do such things?" "I'm sure I don't know, my dear," replied her spouse, yawning. The subject was inopportune, and it bored him. CHAPTER XL THE PRICE OF A LIE Stanley had made all his adieux, or at least all he wanted to make. He was tired with the exciting events of the day, and longed for a little peace and quiet before the exacting ordeal of a railway ride to London. He had given up the time-table as a Chinese puzzle. "What with the trains that go somewhere and those that don't," he protested, "I'm all at sea!" He, therefore, sent Kent-Lauriston ahead in the trap, and walked across the park to the station. That gentleman had convinced him of the propriety of restoring the order for the forty thousand pounds to Miss Fitzgerald. He had pointed out that she was the rightful owner of the document, and that Darcy was an infernal rascal. The Secretary had acquiesced in his demand, and promised, should he not see Belle before he left, an interview he much wished to avoid, that he would mail it to her from the station. He had first, however, a far more pleasant commission to perform, and a few minutes later was seated under the spreading branches of an old apple tree with Inez Darcy. "I felt I must come and see you," he said. "I'm going away to-day, to London, on important business." "Yes," she murmured. "You've been very good to me." "Some time ago," he continued, "you did me the honour to entrust your affairs to my keeping, or, perhaps, to the keeping of the Legation." "To your keeping, I should prefer." "I fear that you may think I've been remiss, that other things have taken my mind off them, that I've, in short, forgotten them, but it is not so." "I never doubted you." "I hope to prove to you that you've not misplaced your confidence, in evidence of which I bring you this," and he handed her a paper. "What is it?" she said. "A line from your husband," she started, "which gives you your freedom." "You mean a divorce?" "Yes." "But I do not understand." "He agreed to consent to your obtaining such a decree on any ground you choose. I've decided on 'incompatibility of temper,' as being the least embarrassing to you. He will not appear to contest the suit when it is brought forward. This paper, signed in my presence, promises as much."