“Why did you come here to-day, Mr. Buckland, if you believed the infamous things Sir William Gurdon said, things, by the way, that he has apologized most humbly for?” “I don’t think I could have given a better proof that I took the right side in the argument than by appearing here to-day, Miss Cora,” retorted Gerard diplomatically. Even while he spoke to her, he had his eye on Cecil Jones, who had at once profited by Gerard’s turning away to follow Miss Davison into the adjoining room. Cora being perforce content with this neat reply, Gerard managed to escape, and went into the middle room, where Mrs. Van Santen was pouring out tea. He thought what a strange contrast she made, in her simple gown, her black mittens, and the old-fashioned brooch and hair bracelets which she persisted in wearing, with the elegantly gowned daughters whose taste in dress excited the admiration of the men visitors, and the envy of the women. Her quiet, old-fashioned, almost abrupt manner, too, was a relief after the artificiality of some of the other visitors, and Gerard wondered how she had managed so soon to get over the terrible shock of the preceding Sunday. He would have thought, knowing the simplicity of the old lady, that the bare suggestion of anything unfair in connection with her household would have been enough to make her shut up the house, and return in dudgeon to America with her daughters. But she seemed to be in the same mood of placid good spirits as usual; and he supposed that her sons had known how, by getting hold of her by her weak side, to smooth over the trouble, and to persuade her that the unpleasant affair was only a passing cloud, such as would never darken their atmosphere again. Close beside her he found, among others, Cecil Jones and Miss Davison. He could see that, although they said little to each other, there was some secret understanding between the two, and he was maddened at the thought that she had already broken her oath, and that she was using Jones as a go-between to carry to the Van Santens her knowledge that there would be a detective in the house that day to watch their proceedings. Gerard would fain have believed such an artful evasion of her oath impossible to Miss Davison, but in the face of all that he suspected this was scarcely credible. But even at that moment the thought which troubled him the most was that Rachel cared for Cecil Jones, that he was more than an accomplice, more than a friend, that he was her confidant, and her lover. Nay, the thought darted into his mind with a most poignant rush that perhaps he might be her husband, and that, if not, he was probably already her fiancé.