The clock was striking ten, and Jim was waiting for Henry in the prayer-closet. He had arranged all the details of his departure. It was as though he carried a dead soul, so calm and void had been his feelings for the past hours. He had stayed away from the dinner-party on some pretext, and his man had already started for London with his luggage to be left at his club. When the servant returned the following morning, as he supposed to accompany his master back to town, he would find him gone. By the time the discovery of the deficit was made, Jim would be aboard the steamer that was to carry him across the Atlantic.

Sounds from the drawing-room told him that dinner was over. He sat twirling his travelling hat; on a chair near by lay his coat. The chimes of the last notes of the church-bell were dying away as Henry hurriedly entered. Jim looked up and studied his cousin\'s face, and he saw by his manner that some word of hope must have reached him from Lady Elizabeth. Save for a half-suppressed exclamation from Henry as he noticed Jim\'s travelling clothes, neither of the men spoke. Henry flung himself into a chair; he could feel Jim\'s eyes on his face.

"Damn it, why don\'t you speak?" he finally gasped, when he could no longer endure the situation.

Jim quietly asked, "Have you made your peace with Diana?"

"What would be the use now?" He knew that his mother had told Jim the truth. Why did Jim not refer to it? Perhaps there was, as his mother suggested, a way out of this; if so, why in Heaven\'s name should the torture be continued. But Jim remained silent. "You think of nothing but Diana—Diana—Diana." With the last call of her name it became a wail. Henry had learned during the past hours what suffering could mean—he was beginning to know what life tempered with discipline might have meant for him. "When I stand dishonored before the world, it will be easy for you to take her from me. Is that what you are thinking?" He began excitedly to pace the room.

"Not exactly," Jim answered, without moving from his bent position; "I was wondering whether you can be trusted with Diana\'s future. I believe you love her after a fashion."

Henry stopped in his walk in front of Jim. "And I know that you love her."

Jim moved from the position that told how spent he was, and raised himself to his cousin\'s height. "Yes," he said, "but not quite in the way you mean. I am about to show you how I love her."

Something in the simple directness of his words made Henry lower his eyes. He threw himself into a chair and with averted head listened to what his cousin had to say.

"It\'s too late for Diana to find out what a blackguard you are, Henry." Henry only dropped his head lower on his hands. "I wonder if you will enter into an honest conspiracy to keep her in happy ignorance to the end," Jim continued.

"What are you driving at?" Henry asked. He almost knew the words that were to follow, but he hardly dared believe that what he surmised could be true.

"I am thinking that under certain conditions I will disappear—leave England; as secretary of the Fund my action would be practically a confession of guilt."

Jim could hardly hear the strained question that followed.

"Your conditions?"

"That you give up gambling of every kind; that you drop your mistress, shut up her establishment, and give up your other liaisons for good and all; that you make a will leaving everything you have, except what is entailed, to Diana; and that you give me a written and signed confession that you embezzled this money; that for the above considerations I consented to assume the appearance and responsibility of the guilt, and that if you do not keep the agreement you have made with me, I am at liberty to appear at any time and make known the truth."

Henry rose and stood looking silently at Jim. Vaguely he began to grasp the tremendous power of Jim\'s loyal love. He could find no word—the clock chimed the quarter-hour.

"Well?" Jim asked.

"It\'s for her, Jim—for her—I understand that, and I\'ll try and have the future make up for the past, so that you\'ll never regret this." His voice broke—he leaned towards Jim and tried to grope for the hands that he could not see—"I was a dog to say what I did, but, by God! I\'ll keep my part of the agreement."

Jim nodded—he was beyond emotion. "Good; it\'s a bargain. Go to your room, make out a paper such as I have indicated, sign it and bring it to me here. Be quick," he added, "and I\'ll get away at once."

This time it was Jim who dropped into a chair and averted his head to avoid seeing Henry\'s out-stretched, pleading hand. He never raised his eyes until he heard the door click, then he went and unlocked a side entrance that led from the prayer-closet to the other side of the garden, and with his watch in his hand leaned against the open door and waited. Henry must not be too long; he was to leave by the midnight train, but before that he must make his pilgrimage. Across the garden he could see the waving tree-tops beckoning him, calling him with the mysterious powers of the night. Yes, he would make his start for the new life from the Fairies\' Corner that led—whither?

Towards the carriage-drive Diana tenderly assisted Sir Charles, followed by Bates.

"Must you really go, father?"

"Yes, my dear, I must keep good hours, you know. These two days have been a great dissipation for me; but I\'ve been well repaid; I can\'t tell you how much the delightful episode of the loving-cup pleased me. So now, good-night, my love." They had reached the entrance, "No, no," Sir Charles protested as Diana started to walk to the carriage with him, "Bates will take care of me." Then he gathered her close in his frail arms as he kissed her, and whispered, full of the pride he felt in the honors done to the house of Kerhill, "You see, it was all for the best, my dear—all for the best." And Diana made no answer. Ever since she had sent the note to Jim revealing the truth of her tortured heart she had seemed to gain a spiritual strength that helped to calm the aching call of her senses. She dared ask no question concerning Jim\'s absence, and her heart mocked her again with the truth that she had not meant him to obey her so implicitly.

She saw Sir Charles drive away. "Dear father," she whispered, "he must never know—never know—but it was all for the worst, my dear, all for the worst." Tears began to stain her face; they were the first in many days. She tried to control the passion of her grief but it was impossible; quivering sobs shook her in an hysterical outburst. To escape from the possible eyes of any chance meeting she quickly sought refuge in the rose-arbor. Hidden completely, she gave herself up to the relaxation of her sorrow. Finally, spent with her tears, she leaned against the damp foliage of the rose-screen, and an aftermath of calm followed her ............