"I've thought it all out," Pargeter went on, excitedly. "Peggy was driven to the wrong station--see? Got into the wrong train--and then--then, Grid, when she found out what she'd done, she got upset----" For the first time a note of awe, of horror, came into his voice--"You see, my sister Sophy was right, after all; the poor girl's heart was queer!" "And what are you going to do now?" asked Vanderlyn in a low, dry tone. "Arrange for a special to Orange, I suppose? What time will you start, Tom? Would you like me to come with you?" Pargeter reddened; his green eye blinked as if he felt suddenly blinded by the bright sun. "I'm not thinking of going myself," he said, rather ashamedly. "Where would be the good of it? Her brother and that cousin of hers are sure to want to go. They can take Plimmer. The truth is--well, old man, I don't feel up to it! I've always had an awful horror of death. Peggy knew that well enough----" the colour faded from his face; he looked at the other with a nervous, dejected expression. "Tom," said Vanderlyn, slowly, "why shouldn't _I_ go to Orange--with Madame de Lera? Why say anything to Peggy's people till we really know?" For the first time Pargeter seemed moved to genuine human feeling. "Well," he said, "you _are_ a good friend, Grid! I'll never forget how you've stood by me during this worrying time. I wish I could do something for you in return----" he looked at the other doubtfully. To poor Tom Pargeter, "doing something" always meant parting with money, and Laurence Vanderlyn was, if not rich, then quite well off. Vanderlyn's hand suddenly shook. He dropped the piece of paper he had been holding. "Perhaps you'll let me have Jasper sometimes--in the holidays," he said, huskily. "Lord, yes! Of course I will! There's nothing would please poor Peggy more! Then--then when will you start, Grid? I mean for Orange?" "At once," said Vanderlyn. Then he looked long, hesitatingly at Pargeter, and the millionaire, with most unusual perspicacity, read and answered the question contained in that strange, uncertain gaze. "Don't bring her back, Grid! I couldn't stand a big funeral here. I don't want to hear any more about it than I can help! Of course, it isn't much good my going over to England _now_; but I won't stay in Paris, I'll get away,--right away for a bit, on the yacht,--and take some of the crowd with me." * * * * * No one ever knew the truth. To the Prefect of Police the mystery of the disappearance of Mrs. Pargeter is still unsolved--unsolvable. When he meets a pretty woman out at dinner he tells her the story--and asks her what she thinks.