At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces of suffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To some extent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood. It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally have been looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard's sister, Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. At first she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and though afterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, she never became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. And after a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad, and detained there on an important diplomatic mission. Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy would ask Philip to "try to find out if Mary West knows where he is". And to please her he did so. But all he learnt was--what indeed was all the sister had to tell--that Arthur was off again on his old travels--to the Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which. "He has promised that I shall hear from him once a year--as near my birthday as he can manage. That is all I can tell you," she said, trying to make light of it. And whether this promise was kept or no, one thing was certain--Arthur Lingard had entirely disappeared from London society. At twenty-five, Daisy married Philip. He had always loved her, though he had never allowed her to suspect it; and knowing herself and her history as he did, he was satisfied with the true affection she could give him--satisfied, that is to say, in the hope and belief that his own devotion would kindle ever-increasing response on her side. And his hopes were not disappointed. They were very happy. Now for the sequel to the story--such sequel, that is to say, as there is to give--a suggestion of explanation rather than any positive _dénoument_ of the mystery. They--Philip and Daisy--had been married for two or three years when one evening it chanced to them to dine at the house of a rather well-known literary man with whom they were but slightly acquainted. They had been invited for a special reason; their hosts were pleasant and genial people who liked to get those about them with interests in common. And Keir, though his wings were now so happily clipt, still held his position as a traveller who had seen and noted much in his former wanderings. "We think your husband may enjoy a talk with Sir Abel Maynard, who is with us for a few days," Mrs. Thorncroft had said in her note.