"I'll defy the police to find 'em, anyway," replied Addie with a quick response of lip and eye. "I don't do things by halves. I say--they're gone! But--I'm here. Come, now--I've made a clean breast of it all. The thing's over and done with. There's nothing to prevent Miss Greyle there coming into her rights--I can prove 'em--my father can prove them. So--is it any use doing what that old gentleman's just worrying to do? You can all see what he wants--he's dying to hand me over to the police." Sir Cresswell Oliver rose, glanced at Audrey and her mother, received some telepathic communication from them, and assumed his old quarter-deck manner. "Not tonight, I think, Petherton," he said authoritatively. "No--certainly not tonight!" * * * * * Some months later, when Audrey Greyle had come into possession of Scarhaven, and had married Copplestone in the little church behind her mother's cottage, she and her husband, to satisfy a mutual and long-cherished desire, visited a certain romantic and retired part of the country. And in the course of their wanderings they came across a very pretty village, and in it a charmingly situated retreat, which looked so attractive from the road along which they were walking that they halted and peered at it through its trimly-kept boundary hedge. And there, seated in the easiest of chairs on the smoothest of lawns, roses about him, a cigar in his mouth, the newspaper in his hand, a glass at his elbow, they saw Peter Chatfield. They looked at him for a long moment; then they looked at each other and smiled delightedly, as children might smile at a pleasure-giving picture, and they passed on in silence. But when that village lay behind them, Copplestone gave his wife a sly glance, and permitted himself to make an epigram. "Chatfield!" he said musingly. "Chatfield! sublimely ungrateful that he isn't in Dartmoor." THE END