She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown she wore seemed a golden mist about her. He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room. Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved. As they came up, “Dead faint,” he said. “Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Masterson. Shall I carry her in?” He waved a hand towards the open French-windows. “Oh, please do.” Dora picked nervously at her dress. “It—it _is_ only a faint, isn’t it?” She was reassured. Anthony gathered the still body in his arms and bore it into the room. He withdrew to the background while Sir Arthur and the girl ministered. Had he wished he could not have helped them. He had held Her in his arms. His heart hammered at his ribs. He felt—though he would not have acknowledged it—actually giddy. Only by an effort did he manage to mask his face with its usual impassivity. His one desire for the moment was to get away and think; to leave this house before he did more harm. Reason; thought; his sense of justice—all deserted him. Sir Arthur stepped back from the couch. Colour had come back to the cheeks of the woman. The lids of the eyes had flickered. Sir Arthur turned. Anthony touched him on the arm. “I think we’re superfluous, you know,” he said. The other nodded. “You’re right. I’ve told Dora I’d send a doctor, but she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary. Come on.” They slipped from the room, and in two minutes were walking back along the river-bank towards the bridge. Chapter VI. The Secretary and the Sister 1 They had walked for perhaps two hundred yards before the elder man broke the silence. “I hope Lucia will be all right,” he said. “Probably it was the heat. It’s a scorcher to-day.” Anthony nodded. He was in no mood for talk. “Dora was telling me,” continued Sir Arthur, “that Lucia had been feeling queer since last night. They hardly saw her after dinner. She vanished to her room and locked herself in. But apparently she’d been all right this morning until lunch-time.” Anthony began to take notice. Here was more confirmation—though it was hardly needed. They were drawing near the bridge now. Another silence fell. Again it was Sir Arthur who broke it.