"He said that you were married to a young gentleman who was killed at the Front--and that because you were both so young and hurried and upset you perhaps hadn't done things as regular as you thought. And that you hadn't the papers you ought to have for proof. And it might take too much time to search for them now. And--and--Oh, my love, he's a good man, for all you've hated him so! He won't let a child be born with shame to blight it. And he's given you and it--poor helpless innocent--his own name, God bless him!" Robin sat still and straight, with clasped hands on her knee, and her eyes more lost than before, as she questioned Dowie remorselessly. There was something she must know. "He said--and the Duchess said--that no one would believe me if I told them I was married. Do _you_ believe me, Dowie? Would Mademoiselle believe me--if she is alive--for Oh! I believe she is dead! Would you _both_ believe me?" Dowie's work fell upon the rug and she held out both her comfortable nursing arms, choking: "Come here, my lamb," she cried out, with suddenly streaming eyes. "Come and sit on your old Dowie's knee like you used to do in the nursery." "You _do_ believe me--you _do_!" As she had looked in the nursery days--the Robin who left her chair and was swept into the well known embrace--looked now. She hid her face on Dowie's shoulder and clung to her with shaking hands. "I prayed to Jesus Christ that you would believe me, Dowie!" she cried. "And that Mademoiselle would come if she is not killed. I wanted you to _know_ that it was true--I wanted you to _know_!" "That was it, my pet lamb!" Dowie kept hugging her to her breast "We'd both of us know! We know _you_--we do! No one need prove things to us. We _know_!" "It frightened me so to think of asking you," shivered Robin. "When you came to Eaton Square I could not bear it. If your dear face had looked different I should have died. But I couldn't go to bed to-night without finding out. The Duchess and Lord Coombe are very kind and sorry for me and they say they believe me--but I can't feel sure they really do. And nobody else would. But you and Mademoiselle. You loved me always and I loved you. And I prayed you would." Dowie knew how Mademoiselle had died--of the heap of innocent village people on which she had fallen bullet-riddled. But she said nothing of her knowledge. "Mademoiselle would say what I do and she would stay and take care of you as I'm going to do," she faltered. "God bless you for asking me straight out, my dear! I was waiting for you to speak and praying you'd do it before I went to bed myself. I couldn't have slept a wink if you hadn't." For a space they sat silent--Robin on her knee like a child drooping against her warm breast. Outside was the night stillness of the moor, inside the night stillness held within the thick walls of stone rooms and passages, in their hearts the stillness of something which yet waited--unsaid. At last--