"_Nil desperandum!_" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously, taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps a surprise is waiting--some ragamuffin may have put a penknife through the tire!" "I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer." "Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down here again presently, I suppose?" "Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his lips. "A dashing adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious business is golf----" She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with thought. Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred and the ambassador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting, perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the ambassador's visit was proof of fellowship--in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let us begin again from another point. Why had Winifred invited his amorous interest? She--but Beatrice had warned him--unnecessarily, had been his foolish thought--against the wiles of Winifred. Her seductive friendship had been simply a trap ... but, no! the remembrance of his recent delectable danger, the sincerity of her--love? the faith of her eyes--all denied a trap. Winifred could not be a conspirator; at worst she must be a half-hearted conspirator who had begun to sympathize with her enemies. But if that were so, she must soon be on the side of Beatrice, of whom she would speedily be jealous! His brain reeled. The sum of his perplexed musings was that he must keep his eyes open,--a poor result for so much mental effort. That, however, was all he achieved by dinner-time, and he sucked small comfort therefrom. "I am not made for detective work," he reflected gloomily as he played with dinner. "I went into this adventure too light-heartedly. I thought it a game.... So it is, and deucedly exciting now, but I don't seem to have mastered the rules. A blind man in a total eclipse looking for something that isn't there,--that's Lionel Mortimer, Esquire. Old man, you'd better have a drink."