on the sunday donald lindsay died, in the afternoon, about half-past four; probably about the time, dr. banyard said, when he had first been stricken. although, apparently, conscious to the last, he died speechless, without being able to do anything to relieve himself of the burden which lay upon his mind; a burden which, it seemed not improbable, had been the first cause of the fate which had so suddenly overtaken him. to nora the blow was, of course, a bad one; when she realized that her father was dead it seemed as if all the light had gone out of the world for her. and yet, in the nature of things, it was impossible that she should feel for him the affection which sometimes associates the parent with the child. he himself had scoffed at love; sentiment, he had repeatedly told her, was the thing in life which was to be most avoided; he had illustrated his meaning in his own practice. he had never been unkind, but he had certainly never been tender; so far as she was aware he had never kissed her in his life; on those rare occasions on which she had ventured to kiss him he had brushed her aside as if she had been guilty of some folly. his attitude towards her was one of more or less genial indifference. he had provided her with a beautiful home; he had bought cloverlea, as he was careful to inform her, for her, and in it he left her very much alone. he supplied her liberally with money, and there he seemed to think his duty towards her ended. she was welcome to have any companions she chose; he asked no questions about her comings and her goings; took no sort of interest in the young women of her own age whom, at rare intervals, she induced to stay with her. he made no attempt whatever to find for her a place in local, or any other, society; yet, unaided, she began, by degrees, to occupy a somewhat prominent place on the local horizon.

living in one of the finest places in the neighbourhood, with horses and carriages at her disposal, and even, latterly, motor cars; possessed of a sufficiency of ready money, it was hardly likely that she should remain unnoticed; her father's peculiarities threw her, if anything, into bolder relief. there was not a house for miles in which she was not a welcome visitor, and for this she had, largely, to thank herself. not only was she good to look at, she was good to be with; she had that indefinable thing, charm. not all the pens which ever wrote could make clear to us the secret of a young girl's charm. whilst she was still the mistress of cloverlea her father seemed to be the only living creature who remained impervious to its magic influence; afterwards--that influence waned. on the sunday on which her father died she was left alone with her grief; but on the monday morning dr. banyard called and insisted on her seeing him. his manner, while it was brusque, was sympathetic.

"now, my dear young lady," he began, almost as soon as she was in the room, "what you have first of all to remember is that you, at any rate, are still alive, and likely, in all human probability, to remain so for some considerable time to come; your first duty therefore, towards yourself, and towards your father, is to see that your interests are properly safeguarded."

"i don't know what you mean."

"then i will endeavour to make myself clear. i believe you are engaged to be married."

"you know i am."

"where, at the present moment, is mr. spencer?"

"he is on his way home from cairo, where he has been staying with his aunt, lady jane carruthers, who is ill."

"does he know what has happened?"

"i don't quite know where he is. when he last wrote he told me that he was going to take what he called an 'after-cure' in italy "--she smiled, as if at some thought of her own--"but he entered into no particulars, and until i hear from him again i don't quite know where he's to be found; all i do know is that he's to be home before the first of may."

"as things stand, that's some distance ahead. i believe that his father and mother, the earl and countess, are also absent." she nodded. "you say you don't know who was your father's man of business; then who is there to whom you feel yourself entitled to turn for the kind of assistance of which you stand in such imperative need, at once; certainly in the course of to-day?"

"there's elaine."

"you mean miss harding?" it was his turn to smile. "i'm afraid she's not the kind of person i'm thinking of; though i do not for a moment doubt her cleverness. she suffers from one disqualification; she's not a man. what you want is a dependable, and thoroughly capable lawyer."

"there's mr. nash."

"mr. nash is, again, hardly the sort of person you're in want of. to begin with, he's too young, has too little experience; it was only the other day he qualified--with difficulty."

"he has been qualified more than three years; he did a good many things for papa."

"yes, but what kind of things? not the kind which will have to be done for you; and i happen to know that what he did he bungled."

"i believe he's coming here to-day."

"have you sent for him?"

"i haven't; but elaine came into my room this morning and asked if she should, and i believe she has."

"miss harding sent for him?" the doctor eyed her intently for a moment; then, turning, he went to the window and looked out; presently he spoke to her from there. "and do you propose to give herbert nash the run of your father's papers?"

"i don't know what i propose to do; i haven't thought about it at all; i want him to do what he can to help me; i don't feel as if i could do very much to help myself."

"is it any use my saying that i can give you the name of a well-known firm of family lawyers; and that you have only to send them a wire, and before the day is over you'll have one of the best men in england--in every sense--on the premises, making your interests his own?"

"elaine seemed to think that mr. nash has only to glance through some of my father's papers to discover who my father's man of business really was, and that then all we shall have to do will be to communicate with him."

"i see; there's something in that--miss harding has her wits about her. do you know what time mr. nash is coming?"

"i don't--elaine sent the message, if one was sent, and of that i'm not certain; anyhow i don't know what arrangements she has made."

"would you mind inquiring?"

"i'll ask her to come here, then you can inquire yourself."

the bell was rung, and presently miss harding appeared. she was short and slight; with dark hair, big dark eyes, a dainty little mouth, and very red lips. she made at once for nora, ignoring the doctor, who was still standing by the window.

"they tell me that you want me."

"it isn't i, it's dr. banyard; he wants to know if you have sent to mr. nash; and, if so, at what time he's coming."

miss harding opened her big eyes wider, which was a trick she had.

"dr. banyard wants to know?--why does dr. banyard want to know?"

"that i cannot tell you; you had better ask him; here he is. is mr. nash coming?"

"of course he's coming, but he doesn't seem to know quite when; it seems he has some sort of case on at the police court."

"i know; he's defending that young scoundrel, gus peters, who's been robbing his master."

this was the doctor; miss harding turned to him.

"is the gentleman you call gus peters a scoundrel?"

"isn't a fellow who robs his master a scoundrel?"

"has it been proved that he robbed his master?"

"it's a matter of common notoriety."

"common notoriety is not infrequently a liar. however, that's not the point; i suppose mr. nash will do his duty to his client in any case, and he'll come here as soon as he's done it."

"i'd wait for him if i could, but i have to go my round; i'll look in afterwards on the off-chance of finding him; there's something i particularly wish to say to him. i fancy the magistrates, in spite of mr. nash, will make short work of mr. peters."

after the doctor had gone miss harding said to miss lindsay,

"nora, dear, don't you think that dr. banyard is inclined to be a little interfering?"

"it has never struck me that he was."

"it has struck me, more than once. but then i think that g.p.s are apt to be interfering; they hope, by having a finger in everybody's pie, to get a plum out of each. dr. banyard doesn't like mr. nash, does he?"

"he has never told me that he doesn't."

"has he never breathed words to the same effect?"

"he has certainly hinted that he doesn't think much of mr. nash's legal abilities; but then who does?"

"i do."

"really, elaine?"

"really, nora. i believe that if he's truly interested in a person he can do as much for that person as anybody else--perhaps more."

"possibly; but is he ever truly interested in anybody but himself?"

miss harding was silent for an instant; then she smiled rather oddly.

"entirely between ourselves, nora, that's what i wonder."

she had cause to.

it happened on the thursday evening on which mr. lindsay was taken ill, that elaine harding was left with nothing to do, and no one to do it with. it is true that, had she insisted, she might have made herself of use in some way; but, as she herself admitted, she was no good when there was illness about. indeed, she was one of those persons--though this she kept to herself--who shrunk from suffering in any form with a sort of instinctive physical repugnance. she only needed half-a-hint to the effect that her services were not required, and she was ready to give the sick-room as wide a berth as any one could possibly require. to be plain, she was disposed to regard mr. lindsay's attack almost as if it had been an injury to herself. had she been perfectly free, she would have packed up her boxes and left the house within the hour; it would have been better for her if she had. the idea of having to remain under the same roof with a man who was suffering from an apoplectic stroke was horrid; but, at the same time, there were reasons, of divers sorts, why she should not flee from the dearest friend she had in the world at the first sign of trouble.

instead of packing up her boxes she dined alone, off food which had been ruined by being kept waiting. that was another grievance. she did like good food, perfectly cooked. she was conscious that the servants were regarding her askance, as if they were surprised that she should dine at all; that also was annoying. when she rose from table she was in quite a bad temper--what mr. lindsay meant by falling ill when she was in the house she could not imagine. the solitude of the empty drawing-room was appalling. the french window still stood open; better the solitude of the grounds than that great bare chamber. she went out on to the terrace. it was a lovely night, warmer than many nights in june. there was not a cloud in the sky. a moon, almost at the full, lighted the world with her silver glory. she looked about her. suddenly she perceived that a light was shining out upon the terrace from what was evidently an uncurtained window. she remembered; no doubt it was the lamp in mr. lindsay's study, the lamp which morgan had lit; in that case the window must still be open. she went to see; her slight form moved along the terrace with something stealthy in its movements, as if she was ashamed of what she was doing. she reached the study; it was as she supposed; the lamp was lit, the window was open, the room was empty. she was seized by what she would afterwards have described as a sudden access of curiosity. she glanced over her shoulder, to left and right; there was no one in sight; not a sound. she put her dainty head inside the window, to indulge herself with just one peep; after all, there is very little harm in innocent peeping; then she passed into the room.