He walked away. Helena sat flushed and silent, her eyes on the ground,
twisting and untwisting the handkerchief on her lap. And, presently, she
too disappeared. The rest of the party were left to discuss with Geoffrey
French the ins and outs of the evidence, and to put up various theories
as to the motives of the woman of the yew trees; an occupation that
lasted them till dressing-time.

Cynthia Welwyn took but little share in it. She was sitting rather apart
from the rest, under a blue parasol which made an attractive combination
with her semi-transparent black dress and the bright gold of her hair. In
reality, her thoughts were busy with quite other matters than the lady of
the yews. It did not seem to her of any real importance that a half-crazy
stranger, attracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, on such a
beautiful night, should have tried to watch it from the lake. The whole
tale was curious, but--to her--irrelevant. The mystery she burned to find
out was nearer home. Was Helena Pitstone falling in love with Philip? And
if so, what was the effect on Philip? Cynthia had not much enjoyed her
dance. The dazzling, the unfair ascendency of youth, as embodied in
Helena, had been rather more galling than usual; and the "sittings out"
she had arranged with Philip during the supper dances had been all
cancelled by her sister's tiresome attack. Julian Horne, who generally
got on with her, chivalrously moved his seat near to her, and tried to
talk. But he found her in a rather dry and caustic mood. The ball had
seemed to her "badly managed"; and the guests, outside the house-party,
"an odd set."

Meanwhile, exactly at the hour named by Buntingford, he heard a knock at
the library door. Helena appeared.

She stood just inside the door, looking absurdly young and childish in