Having carried through the first part of this programme, they took the road together and presently came upon the two brides. Maud bore a folded newspaper as if it were a truncheon of official authority. Her expression was stern and important. Helen was obviously struggling with a tendency to hysterical excitement. Upon catching sight of Darcy and her escort, Maud marched with an almost military front, straight upon them, her fellow bride acting as rear guard. “Darcy,” said Maud, ignoring the now perfectly whiskered fiance, “I should like to speak to you alone.” A qualm of mingled intuition and caution warned Darcy. “What about, Maud?” she asked. “A private matter which your fiancé can hear later,” returned the uncompromising Maud. “Please, Darcy,” added Helen. “Not at all,” returned the girl with spirit.’ “Has it anything to do with Monty?” “It has a great deal to do with him,” was the grim response. “Then he should hear it at the same time.” “Haw! By all means. Haw!” confirmed the fiancé, bringing his monocle to bear upon Maud and Helen in turn. “Very well,” said Maud in a your-blood-be-on-your-own-head voice. “Read that.” She thrust the newspaper into Darcy’s hand, pointing to a penciled paragraph on the front page. To Darcy’s eternal credit be it said, she succeeded in preserving a calm and unperturbed face, while she read the paragraph, and then passed it to her waiting fiancé. It informed the world that, for distinguished service in the aerial corps, the King of England had, on the previous day, personally decorated Sir Montrose Veyze, Bart., of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England. CHAPTER XVI FOR the death, disappearance, or capture of Sir Montrose Veyze, of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England, Darcy was duly prepared, in a spirit of Christian fortitude and resignation. That fame might mark him’ out, thus forcing the issue for her, was wholly unforeseen. It took her completely aback. The Darcy of a year before would have collapsed miserably under it. But this was a different Darcy. She faced the accuser with a quiet smile, back of which her thoughts ran desperately around in circles, like a bevy of little rabbits cut off from cover. “You’ve read what it says in the newspaper?” said Maud, in the accents of a cross-examining counsel. “Yes. Oh, certainly!” “Then perhaps you can explain.” Darcy shot a swift glance at the bogus Sir Montrose. He also was smiling. Most illogically Darcy’s heart began to sing a little private Hymn of Hate of its own. What did he mean by standing there with a sickly grin on his silly face when the whole fabric of their mutual pretense was being riddled? (Herein she was ungrateful as well as illogical. The face was silly because she had compelled him to make it so. As for the rest, the smile was good enough of its kind. He was not smiling because he felt like it, but to conceal the fact that he was doing some high-pressure thinking of his own.)