“Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. St John Deloraine, “perhaps you alarm yourself too much. I think”--here she dropped her voice a little--“I think--I don’t think Mr. Maitland’s _heart_ is very deeply concerned about Miss Shields. I may be wrong, but I know him pretty well”--she gave a little nervous laugh--“and I don’t think he’s in _love_ with Margaret.” By the time she reached the end of this interrupted and tentative discourse Mrs. St. John Deloraine was blushing like a rose in June. Barton felt an enormous weight lifted from his heart, and a flood of welcome light poured into his mind. The two philanthropists were in love with each other! “He’s an awfully good fellow, Maitland,” he replied. “But you are right; I’m _sure_ you are right. You must know. He is _not_ in love with Margaret.” Mrs. St. John Deloraine seemed not displeased at the tribute to Maitland’s unobtrusive virtues, and replied: “But he will be very glad to hear that she is found at last, and quite safe; and I’ll write to him myself, this very evening. I heard from him--about a charity, you know--a few days ago, and I have his address.” By this time they had reached the carriage. Janey, with many embraces, tore herself from Margaret, and went off with her attendant; while Mrs. St John Deloraine, with a beaming face, gave the coachman the order “Home.” “We shall see you to-morrow at luncheon,” she cried to Barton; and no offer of hospitality had ever been more welcome. He began to walk home, turning over his discoveries in his thoughts, when he suddenly came to a dead halt. “By George!” he said out loud; “I’ll go back and have it out with her at once. I’ve had enough of this shillyshally.” He turned and strode off in the direction of Cheyne Walk. In a few minutes he was standing at the familiar door. “Will you ask Miss--Miss Burnside if she can see me for one moment?” he said to the servant “I have forgotten something she wished me to do for her,” he added in a mumble. Then he was taken into the boudoir, and presently Margaret appeared, still in her bonnet and furs. “I couldn’t help coming back, Margaret,” he said, as soon as she entered the room. “I want to tell you that it is all right, that you needn’t think--I mean, that I know all about it, and that there is nothing, _nothing_ to prevent us--I mean» Margaret, if you _really_ care for me--” Then he came to a dead stop. It was not a very easy situation. Barton could not exactly say to Margaret, “My dear girl, you need not worry yourself about Maitland. He does not care a pin for you; he’ll be delighted at being released. He is in love with Mrs. St. John Deloraine.” That would have been a statement both adequate and explicit; but it could not have been absolutely flattering to Margaret, and it would have been exceedingly unfair to her hostess. The girl came forward to the table, and stood with her hand on it, looking at Barton. She did not help him out in any way; her attitude was safe, but embarrassing.