she glanced at the open book, then with sweet mockery looked at her
hands--"until 'those lucid, perfect hands bound me to the mast of your
destiny.' O vain Diana! But they are rather beautiful," she added
softly, "and I am rather happy." There was something like a gay little
chuckle in her throat.

"O vain Diana!" she repeated.

.......................

Rawley entered the door of the but on the hill without ceremony. There
was no need for courtesy, and the work he had come to do could be easier
done without it.

Old Busby was crouched over a table, his mouth lapping milk from a full
bowl on the table. He scarcely raised his head when Rawley entered--
through the open door he had seen his visitor coming. He sipped on, his
straggling beard dripping. There was silence for a time.

"What do you want?" he growled at last.

"Finish your swill, and then we can talk," said Rawley carelessly. He
took a chair near the door, lighted a cheroot and smoked, watching the
old man, as he tipped the great bowl towards his face, as though it were
some wild animal feeding. The clothes were patched and worn, the coat-
front was spattered with stains of all kinds, the hair and beard were
unkempt and long, giving him what would have been the look of a mangy
lion, but that the face had the expression of some beast less honourable.
The eyes, however, were malignantly intelligent, the hands, ill-cared
for, were long, well-shaped and capable, but of a hateful yellow colour