His wish had been to reach Lynnbrooke as soon as she did; but she had begged for a day or two first. He gave in to her urgency, though it was hard to wait. In his eagerness now he was ready an hour before he had to start; his bag packed, his gloves beside it. To fill up spare time, he ran downstairs for a newspaper, and found a letter, which had just come in. A letter from Doris! He had half wondered at not receiving a few lines on arrival. The lift was at hand; and three seconds saw him back in his own room. A letter from her was not to be read in public. He sat down, and with careful fingers cut open the envelope. Then his eyes travelled down the page, as far as the signature. Sight failed him for more. He remained sitting; silent and motionless; dizzied with the shock. London's roar had died out of his ears, which were filled with another roar, inward, not outward. Physical surroundings vanished; and he was alone upon the Glückhorn with Doris,—her dear face, flushed and radiant, turned towards him; her dear eyes, earnest and glowing, uplifted to his. She!—his own!—his darling!—could write to him thus! He was stunned at first, hardly knowing where he was. Gradually he rallied and came back to the present. He heard again the babel of street sounds, and realised what had happened. A dense fog which had filled the room faded out of it. He sat up, and read the note once more, dwelling upon each word, collecting the full force of each sentence, while a bitter smile curled his lips—till he reached the scrawled postscript. He had not seen that before. "Ah—h!" came with a gasp. The bitter smile disappeared, and he spoke aloud, crushing the sheet in his hand. "Now I understand! It is not Doris!—not my darling! She has been made to do it. The words are not hers. She never wrote such a letter. How could I be taken in for one moment? Dictated all through—except the ending. That is her own beloved self. That only!—nothing else. My poor darling!" He wondered, pityingly, what she might not have had to endure, before giving in to parental tyranny. "But she trusts me. She knows I shall not be so soon conquered. I shall go still, and insist upon being heard. So much, at least, I have a right to demand. If she tells me herself—if she looks at me with those true eyes, and says it—then I will be convinced." And he started for the terminus, clinging hard to the little postscript, as a drowning man clings to a straw. About an hour before luncheon, this same day, Mrs. Winton in the morning-room was at work over household accounts. Between the adding-up of successive columns of figures, she cast divers glances of satisfaction at the present state of affairs. Something drew her eyes to the window, and she became aware of a slim, alert figure, walking quickly towards the front door. A smart pull at the bell followed. Instantly she divined the truth, and whispered,—"What a mercy the child is not here!"