Usk pondered a moment. “No; I don’t!” he cried suddenly. “They want to get us out of the neighbourhood, Nell, that’s it! Now that Malasorte has made his _coup d’état_, they see through the bogus plot, and they want to undo their work, if they can. I’m certain they have him hidden somewhere near--in a cave or something of that kind--and find they can’t get him out of the country without our knowing. We’ll stick on here and tire them out. To-morrow I’ll go over and bring Hicks back with me, if I have to drag him by main force. If the whole crew know he’s on our side I don’t care. He’s the man to smell them out.” “How clever you are, Nym! I never thought that it might be a trick. I do wish I was older, and--and----” “Wiser?” suggested Usk. “Yes, wiser, and able to give you good advice.” “Thanks; I’d just as soon not. I probably shouldn’t take it, you know.” “Oh, Nym, I wish you wouldn’t laugh. I want to be a better wife to you.” “You’re tons too good as it is, so don’t get any better. Was I awfully down on you just now about that Garanine woman, Nell? I didn’t mean it, but you must learn to protect yourself, you know. Just say, ‘I was a silly little idiot, and I’ll never do it again.’” Helene repeated the words with admirable docility. “But I do wish I could think of clever and useful things like you,” she added with a sigh. When Usk betook himself to Bagnanera the next day, he left Helene listless and unhappy. The actress’s words had affected her more than she knew, and the vision of Cyril, nameless and robbed of everything, in a pauper lunatic asylum, was constantly before her eyes. The prospect of spending the whole day alone, since ten hours at least must elapse before Usk could return, if he was to bring Mr Hicks with him, was terrible, for she could think of nothing but that vision. At last she took herself resolutely in hand, determining to set to work at something that would occupy her thoughts. She would spend the day in the beech-woods, and make a sketch for her mother, setting herself the task of finishing it at a sitting. Telling Jakob that she would need his attendance, she went to her room to get out her colour-box. Hannele, who was mending a torn gown, was pleased to approve of her intention. Sketching was a lady-like and elegant accomplishment (provided the sketcher took care not to sit on the grass), and far more suited to the daughter of a princely house than tearing about over the country with a husband as thoughtless as herself. Helene felt that the rebuke was not undeserved, for she had torn the gown disgracefully in scrambling through a thicket with Usk, and she did not venture to suggest that it might be discarded, although Hannele, in her huge spectacles, had the half-resentful, half-triumphant aspect of an unwilling martyr. Hannele was grumbling monotonously on, therefore, when Helene silenced her suddenly by an imperative gesture. Standing near the window, she had been half-unconsciously aware that