Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story. “Of course,” he said, “she was a little fool to try it. Think of the distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an athletic Englishwoman.” He is to be congratulated upon making so ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone. “Oh! Mr. Gethryn, surely not,” cried Dora excitedly. “Why Loo——” A spurt of flame and a crash of breaking china interrupted her sentence. Mrs. Lemesurier had overturned spirit-lamp and coffee-pot. Much damage had resulted to cups and saucers. The tablecloth was burning. “Not bad at all,” thought Anthony, as he rose to help. “But you won’t get off quite so easily.” Order was restored; fresh coffee made and drunk. The party moved to the drawing-room and thence to garden. Anthony lingered in the pleasant room before joining the others on the lawn. At last he took a seat beside his hostess. The deck-chairs were in the shade of one of the three great cedars. “A delightful room, your drawing-room, if I may say so.” His tone was harmlessly affable. The reply was icy. “I am glad it pleases you, Mr.—Mr. Gethryn.” Anthony beamed. “Yes, charming, charming. It has an air, a grace only too rare nowadays. I admired that sideboard thing immensely; Chippendale, I think. And how the silver of those cups shows up the polish of the wood!” With this speech he did not get the effect for which he had wished. Beyond a pulse in the white throat that leapt into startled throbbing, there was no sign of alarm. She remained silent. Half his mind applauded her and reviled himself. But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. “Have another try; you must,” it whispered. “Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave like a schoolboy!” “I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and their inscriptions,” he murmured. “Very rude of me. But to have won all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs. Lemesurier.” The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. “I have given it up—long ago,” she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily. Anthony spurred himself. “Of course,” he said, smiling, “there’s no opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive would have to be sterner than that.” The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it. Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket seemed to be scorching his flesh.