“I want to show you something in the garden, Connie,” she said. “I know Joan won’t mind.” And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the girl, who watched her silently. Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so dear—a heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas. “Do you think she cares for him?” “I don’t know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?” “I am certain of it!” “She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said—” Helen repeated Joan’s exact words. So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what might be, unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those they loved, and in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her rival, whom she hated. “Will you excuse me?” Joan said suddenly. “There is a letter I must write. I have just remembered that the post goes at five, so—” “Of course!” She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. “If he were here, it would be different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not worth while bothering about.” Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not only that she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life. But it would be money well spent; it would silence the slanderous tongue. “I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter thoroughly. I am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself to you. I of course realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so rather than be annoyed and tormented by you. Here is your money. I trust I shall neither hear of you nor see you again. “JOAN MEREDYTH.” And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into which she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a man who was without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the moment she let this other letter fall. Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more. And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came the self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly and weakly, to pay this man money that he had demanded with covert threats? And too late she regretted, and would have had the letter back if she could. “I have no one, not a soul in the world I can turn to. Even Helen is almost a stranger,” the girl thought. “I cannot confide in her. I seem to be so—so alone, so utterly alone.” She twisted her hands together and stood thoughtful for some moments in the roadway where she turned back through the garden gate to the house. “I feel so—so tired,” she whispered, “so tired, so weary of it all. I have no one to turn to.” CHAPTER XXIII “UNCERTAIN—COY” Mr. Tom Arundel, cheerful and happy-go-lucky, filled with an immense belief in a future which he was sure would somehow shape itself satisfactorily, felt a little hurt, a little surprised, just a little disenchanted.