“If I’m not demolished by a Zeppelin in the meanwhile,” laughed the widow. “Or the Yellow Dove,” said Jacqueline Morley. “I’m _sure_ he alights on the roofs of the Parliament Houses.” “You’ll be safe in Scotland at any rate, Constance. We’re quite too unimportant up there to be visited by engines of destruction--” she laughed meaningly. “That is--always excepting Jack Sandys.” Sandys looked self-conscious, but Lady Joyliffe merely beamed benignly. “It will really be quite restful, I’m sure,” she said easily. “Is Cyril going to be at Ben-a-Chielt?” Hammersley awoke from a fit of abstraction. “Quite possible,” he murmured, “gettin’ to be a bit of a hermit lately. Like it though--rather.” “Cyril hasn’t anyone to play with,” said Betty Heathcote, “so he has taken to building chicken-houses.” “Fearfully absorbin’--chicken-houses. Workin’ ’em out on a plan of my own. You’ll see. Goin’ in for hens to lay two eggs a day.” And then to Kipshaven, “So the submarines can’t starve us out, you know,” he explained. “I don’t think you need worry about that,” said the Earl dryly, moving toward the door. Doris Mather went upstairs for her wraps and when she came down she found Hammersley in his topcoat awaiting her. As they went down the steps into the waiting limousine her companion offered her his arm. Was it only fancy that gave her the impression that his glance was searching the darkness of the Park beyond the lights of the waiting cars with a keenness which seemed uncalled for on so prosaic an occasion? He helped her in and gave the direction to the chauffeur. “Ashwater Park, Stryker, by way of Hampstead--and hurry,” she heard him say, which was surprising since the nearer way lay through Harlenden and Harrow-on-Hill. The orders to hurry, too, save in the stress of need, were under the circumstances hardly flattering to her self-esteem. But she remembered the urgent look in his eyes in the hall when he had silenced her questions and sank back in the seat, her gaze fixed on the gloom of Hyde Park to their left, waiting for him to speak. He sat rigidly beside her, his hands clasped about his stick, his eyes peering straight before him at the back of Stryker’s head. She felt his restraint and a little bitterly remembered the cause of it, buoyed by a hope that since he had thought it fit to enact a lie, the whole tissue of doubts which assailed her might be based on misconception also. That he was no coward she knew. More than one instance of his physical courage came back to her, incidents of his life before fortune had thrown them together and she only too well remembered the time when he had jumped from her car and thrown himself in front of a runaway horse, saving the necks of the occupants of the vehicle. He had lied to her. But why--why? She closed her eyes trying to shut out the darkness and seek the sanctuary of some inner light, but she failed to find it. It seemed as though the gloom which spread over London had fallen over her spirit.