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kill Cyril Stanmore. I do not know who did."

      "Judith!" Mrs. Rankin's cry was full of horror—horror that changed to pity as she looked at the white worn face, at the passionate pathetic eyes.

      "Yes, I am the woman the papers speak about, the woman the police are looking for," Judith went on in low, monotonous tones. "What do you think it feels like, Mrs. Rankin, to know you are being hunted, tracked down, that every day your doom is growing closer, a little more certain? I wonder what it feels like to be hanged, if it hurts one much?" in a curiously impersonal tone.

      "Hush! hush! I can't stand it, Judith!" Mrs. Rankin cried, in tones of passionate pain. "You did not hurt Cyril Stanmore; haven't you just told me so? You could prove your innocence."

      "I couldn't," Judith contradicted dully. "I was there in the dark, when somebody shot him, but I didn't see—I didn't know."

      Something in the slow colourless voice seemed to strike a passionate chord of pity in the elder woman's heart. She laid her arms round Judith again. "Tell me all about it, Judith!"

      And Judith feeling the help of the womanly sympathy that had never failed her in her need before, in a few faltering sentences told her the story of that terrible night.

      Mrs. Rankin's arms never relaxed their hold. When the last words of the bald recital of terrible facts was said, a little fluttering sigh escaped her. Judith, looking up, saw the kindly face was as white as death, the eyes looking down at her held a great dread, an infinite pity.

      "My child! my child!" Mrs. Rankin said brokenly. "What a terrible tangle you have involved yourself in. What can we do to help you, Judith?"

      Judith stirred restlessly. "There isn't anything to be done but to wait—for the end—till the blow falls," she said drearily. "But you won't help it on, you won't tell them what you know?"

      "Never, never, Judith!" Mrs. Rankin lowered her voice. "I suppose it isn't possible—it couldn't be that Lady Palmer suspects? She has taken to coming here. Mrs. Dawson, her sister, lives in the parish, and Lady Palmer seems positively to haunt me. She often asks me about you, and sometimes I have fancied that she is trying to find out."

      "I dare say." Judith caught her breath with a bitter laugh. "Probably she is in league with the police. I know she hates me; I have felt it all along. She would do me any harm she could. She loved Anthony, you know, years ago, and he—he loved her. If I were out of the way they would be happy together."

      "I don't think so," Mrs. Rankin said gently. "Your husband loves you, Judith. I have only seen him once, but I am sure of that, and he is an honourable, upright man. There is only one thing for you to do now."

      Judith's slight form grew rigid. "And that?"

      "Go to Sir Anthony," Mrs. Rankin said in a firm, decided voice, though her eyes looked frightened, "tell him everything from the very beginning as you have told me. He would believe you, and he would help you as no one else can. Promise me you will do this. You will go to him, Judith."

      "Never!" Judith set her teeth. "Rather than do that, rather than Anthony should know, I would kill myself!" she declared passionately.

      Chapter XXII

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      "I thought was never going to see you again, Peggy."

      "Did you?" The girl was walking with a slow listless step through the Home Wood.

      Peggy had altered curiously of late, her spirits had become capricious and variable, she was noticeably thinner and paler. She flushed hotly now as she heard Stephen Crasster's voice behind her. Since the day when Chesterham had so rudely torn the veil from her eyes, she had avoided her old friend as much as possible. To-day, for the first time, she found herself alone with him.

      "And it seems to me that our lunch at Talgarth is never coming off," Stephen went on lightly. "You are always engaged."

      "Yes." Peggy's voice sounded muffled as she turned her face away. "Yes, it is very unfortunate. I was very much disappointed. It is so kind of you to ask me."

      "Kind to myself," Crasster smiled. "You might take pity on my loneliness, Peggy; more particularly as my time for giving invitations to Talgarth is getting short."

      "What do you mean?" Peggy turned a startled face upon him.

      Stephen did not answer for a moment.

      "The Annesley Wards have always had a fancy for Talgarth," he said slowly at last. "I am going to let it to them, with the option of buying it at the end of the year."

      "You are going to let Talgarth?" Peggy repeated in tones of consternation. "Oh, Stephen, we thought you had come to settle down among us."

      "So did I at first," Stephen assented. "But I am beginning to fancy I am a bit of a rolling stone, Peggy. And, in any case, if I went on with my profession I shouldn't have much time for Talgarth. It is no use keeping on a big house like that for one man."

      "It isn't so very big," Peggy said wistfully. "And why do you say 'if I went on with my profession,' Stephen?"

      "Why, because—" Crasster hesitated a moment and bit his lip. "The fact is that since I have come into money, as the country folk say, I suppose I am getting lazy. I feel I should like to see rather more of the world. There is an expedition starting for Central Africa in a couple of months' time, and I have a chance of going with it, if I like."

      "But you wouldn't, Stephen." Peggy exclaimed in startled tones.

      "I think I must, Peggy."

      The girl winked back her rising tears. "I don't see why."

      Stephen glanced at her half-averted cheek, at the long upcurled lashes, at the mouth that trembled as she spoke. It took all his manhood's strength of will to restrain the words that would have torn the last vestige of doubt from Peggy's mind, to keep up the light jesting tone that had become habitual to him of late when he was speaking to Peggy.

      "I think everything is changing," the girl went on, her voice quivering. "And I—I like things to stop always the same."

      Stephen's smile held more of sadness than of mirth. "Change is the law of this world, little Peggy. Haven't you learnt that, child?"

      There was silence for a minute, broken by a hoarse sob in Peggy's throat.

      "I ought to have," she flashed out suddenly. "Anthony has changed, so has Judith. I should not know either of them now, and you have altered, and—and Lorrimer." She dropped her voice as she spoke her lover's name.

      "Surely he has not changed!" Stephen was half laughing as he spoke, but his eyes showed a keen anxiety. "Or, if so, it is only for the better!" he concluded jestingly.

      Peggy did not look round, she shivered a little.

      "Oh, he is only like everybody else. I suppose you will tell me I must get used to it."

      "I, at least, shall never change in one way," Stephen said gravely. "I shall always be your friend, Peggy."

      "Oh, you say so now," the girl answered pettishly, still keeping her face turned away. "But a friend isn't much good to one, if he is at the other end of the world."

      "I would come from the other end of the world to serve you," Stephen declared hoarsely. "You know that. Don't make it too hard for me."

      "I should like to make things so hard for you that you couldn't go at all," Peggy retorted with some of her old spirit. "Tell the Annesley Wards they can't have Talgarth; keep it for yourself!"

      "I can't, Peggy. Don't ask me."

      Peggy took one swift glance at his face, then looked away, her own cheeks paling. But she did not speak, and they walked on in silence, past the Heron's moat, with its giant bulrushes, and its glory of golden kingcups, to the Dower House.

      The Dowager Lady Carew was sitting