Giles left "The Merry Dancer" quite determined to deceive Olga if it were possible. No faith should be kept with such a woman. She had power, and she was using it unscrupulously for selfish ends. Moreover, come what might, Giles could not bring himself to make her his wife. He loved Anne too deeply for that. And then he began to ask himself if he were not selfish also, seeing that he would not lose his own gratification to save the woman he loved. Nevertheless, he could not contemplate giving up Anne with equanimity, and set his wits to work in order to circumvent the treacherous Olga.

In the first place he now felt certain that Anne was in the neighborhood, and, as he shrewdly suspected, in the Priory. The discovery of the coin and the presence of Olga in the village made him certain on this point. In some way or another she had got to know of Anne's whereabouts, and had come here to make capital of her knowledge. If he consented to surrender Anne and make Olga his wife, she would probably assist Anne to escape, or else, as she asserted, clear her of complicity in the crime.

On the other hand, should he refuse, she would then tell the police where the unfortunate governess was to be found. It might be that Anne could save herself. But seeing that she had fled immediately after the murder, it would be difficult for her to exonerate herself. Also, the reason she had then to take the guilt upon her own shoulders might again stand in the way of her now clearing her character. Nothing was left but to marry Olga and so free Anne, or seek Anne himself. Ware determined to adopt the latter course as the least repugnant to his feelings.

But Olga was no mean antagonist. She loved Giles so much that she knew perfectly well that he did not love her, and this knowledge taught her to mistrust him. As her passion was so great she was content to take him as a reluctant husband, in the belief that she, as his wife, would in time wean him from his earlier love. But she was well aware that, even to save Anne, he would not give in without a struggle.

This being the case, she considered what he would do. It struck her that he would see if he could get into the Priory, for from some words he had let fall she was convinced that he thought Anne was concealed therein. Olga had her own opinion about that; but she had to do with his actions at present and not with her own thoughts. For this reason she determined to watch him – to be in his company throughout the time of probation.

Thus it happened that before Giles could arrange his plans the next day – one of which entailed a neighborly visit to Franklin – Olga made her appearance at his house, and expressed a desire to see his picture gallery, of which she had heard much. Her mother, she said, was coming over that afternoon to look at the house, which, as she had been told, was a model of what an English country-house should be.

Giles growled at this speech, being clever enough to see through the artifices of Mademoiselle Olga.

"The house is as old as the Tudors," he expostulated; "your mother should look at a more modern one."

"Oh, no," replied Olga sweetly. "I am sure she will be delighted with this one; it is so picturesque."

"I am afraid that I promised to pay a visit this afternoon."

"Ah, you must put it off, Mr. Ware. When two ladies come to see you, you really cannot leave them alone."

"If the next day will do – "

"I don't think it will. My mother and I leave the next day. She is due in town to a reception at the Austrian Embassy."

Ware made other excuses, but Olga would listen to none of them. She stopped all the morning and looked at the pictures, but she never referred to their conversation of the previous night. There was a tacit understanding between them that it should remain in abeyance until the time given for the reply of Giles was ended. Still, Ware could not forget that burning kiss, and was awkward in consequence.

Not so Olga. She was quite cool and self-possessed, and although alone with him for close on two hours, did not show the least confusion. Giles, much disgusted, called her in his own mind "unmaidenly." But she was not that, for she behaved very discreetly. She was simply a woman deeply in love who was bent on gaining her ends. Considering the depth of her passion, she restrained herself very creditably when with the man she loved. Giles now saw how it was that she had defied her family and had taken her own way in life.

"I won't stop to luncheon," she said, when he asked her; "but I and my mother will come over at three o'clock." It was now close on two. "I am sure we shall have a pleasant afternoon."

Giles tried to smile, and succeeded very well, considering what his feelings were at the moment. If he could only have behaved brutally, he would have refused the honor of the proposed visit, but it is difficult to be rude to a charming woman bent upon having her own way. Ware kicked as a man will, but ended in accepting the inevitable.

Olga returned to the inn, and found the Princess seated on the sofa fanning herself violently. Mrs. Morris was in the room, fluttering nervously as she laid the cloth for luncheon. Olga looked at her mother. "Did you take your walk?" she asked.

The Princess nodded. "I am very warm," she said.

"What do you think now?" asked her daughter impatiently.

"I think that you are a very clever woman, Olga," replied the Princess; "but I am too hungry to talk just now. When I have eaten and am rested we can speak."

"But just one word. Am I right?"

"Perfectly right."

This conversation was conducted in French, and Mrs. Morris could make nothing of it. Even if she had known the sense she would not have understood what it meant. However, Olga and her mother reverted to English for the benefit of the landlady, and chatted about their proposed visit to Ware's mansion. After that came luncheon. Shortly after three mother and daughter were with Giles. He received them with composure, although he felt quite otherwise than composed. The Princess pronounced him a charming young man.

"And what a delightful place you have here!" she said, looking at the quaint Tudor house, with its grey walls and mullion windows. "It is like a fairy palace. The Castle" – she meant her husband's residence in Styria – "is cruel-looking and wild."

"It was built in the Middle Ages," said Olga. "I don't think any one was particularly amiable then."

"I would rather have stayed in Jamaica," sighed the Princess. "Why did I ever leave it?"

Olga, who always appeared annoyed when her mother reverted to her early life, touched the elder woman's elbow. The Princess sighed again, and held her peace. She had a fine temper of her own, but always felt that it was an effort to use it. She therefore usually gave in to Olga. "It saved trouble," she explained.

But her good temper did not last all the afternoon, and ended in disarranging Olga's plans. After a hearty afternoon tea on the lawn the Princess said that she did not feel well, and wished to go home. Olga demurred, but Giles, seeing the chance of escape, agreed that the Princess really was unwell, and proposed to send them back to the inn in his carriage. Princess Karacsay jumped at the offer.

"It will save me walking," she declared fretfully, "and I have done so much this morning."

"Where did you go?" asked Giles, wondering that so indolent a woman should exert herself on such a hot day.

"To some woods round a place they call the Priory."

"To the Priory!" he exclaimed, astonished. "Do you know Mr. Franklin?"

"My mother said the woods round the Priory," explained Olga, with an annoyed glance at the elder lady. "She did not enter."

"No," said the Princess, "I did not enter; I do not know the man. Oh, my dear Olga, do come back. I don't feel at all well."

"I will order the carriage," said Giles, rising.

"And you will come back with us?"

"Really, you must excuse me, Mademoiselle Olga," he answered; "but even a country squire has his work to do."

And with that he hurried away. In half an hour he had the satisfaction of seeing the carriage roll down his avenue with a very disappointed young lady frowning at the broad back of the coachman. Then he set about seeing what he could do to circumvent her.

It was too late to call on Franklin, as it was nearly six o'clock. Still, Ware thought he would reconnoitre in the woods. It was strange that the elder Princess should have been there this morning, and he wondered if she also knew of Anne's whereabouts. But this he decided was impossible. She had only been a few days in England, and she would not likely know anything about the governess. Still, it was odd that she should have taken a walk in that particular direction, or that she should have walked at all. Here was another mystery added to the one which already perplexed him so greatly.

However, time was too precious to be wasted in soliloquizing, so he went off post-haste towards the woods round the Priory. Since he wished to avoid observation, he chose by-paths, and took a rather circuitous route. It was nearly seven when he found himself in the forest. The summer evenings were then at their longest, and under the great trees there was a soft, brooding twilight full of peace and pleasant woodland sounds. Had he gone straight forward, he would have come on the great house itself, centred in that fairy forest. But this was the last thing he wished to do. He was not yet prepared to see Franklin. He looked here and there to see if any human being was about, but unsuccessfully. Then he took his way to the spot where he had found the coin of Edward VII. To his surprise he saw a girl stooping and searching. At once he decided that she was looking for the lost coin. But the girl was not Anne.

Looking up suddenly she surveyed him with a startled air, and he saw her face plainly in the quiet evening light. She had reddish hair, a freckled face, and was dressed – as Mrs. Parry had said – in all the colors of the rainbow. Giles guessed at once who she was, and bowed.

"Good evening, Miss Franklin," he said, lifting his hat, "you seem to be looking for something. Can I assist you?"

The damsel looked at him sternly and scowled. "You're trespassing," she said in rather a gruff voice.

"I fear that I am," he answered, laughing; "but you'll forgive me if I assist you in your search, won't you?"

"Who are you?" questioned Miss Franklin, quite unmoved by this politeness. "I never saw you before."

"I have just returned from London. My name is Ware."

"Ware!" echoed the girl eagerly. "Giles Ware?"

"Yes. Do you know my name?"

She took a good look at him, and seemed – he was vain enough to think so – rather to soften towards him. "I have heard Mrs. Morley speak of you," she declared bluntly.

"Ah! You have not heard a lady speak of me?"

Miss Franklin stared. "No, I never heard a lady talk of you," she replied, with a giggle. "What lady?"

"The lady who is stopping in your house."

Her eyes became hard, and she assumed a stony expression. "There is no lady in the house but myself."

"Not a lady who lost what you are looking for?"

This time she was thrown off her guard, and became as red as her hair. She tried to carry off her confusion with rudeness. "I don't know what you're talking of," she said, with a stamp and a frown! "you can just clear away off our land, or I'll set the dogs on you."

"I see. You keep dogs, do you? Bloodhounds probably?"

"How do you know that?" asked Miss Franklin, staring. "Yes, we do keep bloodhounds, and they will tear you to pieces if you don't go."

"You seem to forget that this is a civilized country," said Giles quietly. "If you set your dogs on me, I shall set the police on you."

"The police!" She seemed startled, but recovered herself. "I don't care for the police," she declared defiantly.

"You might not, but Walter Franklin might."

"Who is he? Never heard of him."

"Never heard of your uncle?" said Giles, and then wondered how he could let her know that he had heard it without confessing to the eavesdropping. It suddenly occurred to him that Franklin had – he supposed – on the previous day made a confidant of Morley. This supposition he took advantage of. "Mr. Morley told me that your father had mentioned his brother."

The girl started and thought for a moment. "Oh, you mean Uncle Walter," she said, after a pause. "Yes, but we never talk of him."

This little speech did not ring quite true. It seemed as though the girl wished to back up the saying of her father, whether she believed it or not. "Is that why you pretended ignorance?" he asked.

"That was why," replied Miss Franklin, with brazen assurance.

She was lying. Giles felt certain of that, but he could not bring the untruth home to her. He suddenly reverted to the main object of his interview, which had to do with the possibility of Anne being in the Priory.

"What about that coin you are looking for?"

"I am looking for no coin," she replied, quite prepared for him. "I lost a brooch here. Have you found it?"

"Yes," replied Giles, his eyes watchfully on her face. "It is an Edward VII. coin in the form of a brooch."

He thought Miss Franklin would contradict this, but she was perfectly equal to the occasion. "You must have found it, since you know it so well. Please give it to me."

"I have left it at home," he answered, although it was lying in his pocket-book, and that next his heart. "I will give it to you to-morrow if you tell me from whom you got it."

"I found it," she confessed, "in the churchyard."

"Ah!" A sudden light flashed into the darkness of Ware's mind. "By the grave of that poor girl who was murdered?"

"I don't know of any murdered girl," retorted Miss Franklin, and looked uneasy, as though she were conscious of making a mistake.

"Yes you do, and you know the lady who cleans the stone and attends to the grave. Don't deny the truth."

Miss Franklin looked him up and down, and shrugged her clumsy shoulders. "I don't know what you are talking about," she declared, and with that turned on her heel. "Since you will not take yourself off like a gentleman, I'll go myself"; and she went.

"Don't set the bloodhounds on me," called out Giles. But she never turned her head; simply went on with a steady step until she was lost in the gloom of the wood.

Giles waited for a time. He had an idea that she was watching. By-and-by the feeling wore off, and knowing by this time that he was quite alone, he also departed.

He was beginning to doubt Franklin, for this girl had evidently something to conceal. He was sure that Anne was being sheltered in the house, and that it was Anne who cleaned the gravestone. Perhaps George Franklin was giving her shelter since she had helped his rascal of a brother to escape. Thus thinking, he went through the wood with the intention of going home. A glance at his watch told him it was after eight.

Suddenly it occurred to him that it would be a good time to pay a visit to the graveyard and see if anything new had been done to the grave. All the people were within doors at this hour, and the churchyard would be quiet. Having made up his mind, he walked in the direction of the church and vaulted the low wall that divided that graveyard from the park. He saw Daisy's grave. Bending over it a woman. She looked up with a startled cry. It was Anne Denham.

CHAPTER XVII
PART OF THE TRUTH

For a moment the lovers stared at one another in the luminous twilight. The meeting was so strange, the place where it took place so significant of the trouble that had parted them, that both were overcome with emotion. Anne was as white as the marble tombstone, and looked at him with appealing eyes that beseeched him to go away. But having found her Giles was determined not to lose her again, and was the first to find his tongue.

"Anne!" said he, and stepped towards her with open arms.

His voice broke the spell which held her chained to the ill-omened spot, and she turned to fly, only to find herself on his breast and his dear voice sounding entreatingly in her ears.

"Anne," he said in a hoarse whisper, "you will not leave me now?"

After a brief struggle she surrendered herself. There was no danger of any one coming to the churchyard at this hour, and since they had met so unexpectedly, she – like the tender, sweet woman she was – snatched at the blissful moment. "Giles," she murmured, and it was the first time he had heard her lips frame his name. "Giles!"

Again there was a silence between them, but one of pure joy and transcendental happiness. Come what might, nothing could banish the memory of that moment. They were heart to heart and each knew that the other loved. There was no need of words. Giles felt that here was the one woman for him; and Anne nestled in those beloved arms like a wild bird sheltering from storm.

But the storm which buffeted her wings would tear her from this refuge. The passionate delight of that second of Eden passed like a shadow on the sun dial. From heaven they dropped to earth, and parted once more by a hand-breath, stared with haggard looks at one another. The revulsion was so great that Anne could have wept; but her sorrow was so deep that her eyes were dry. For the gift of the world she could not have wept at that hour.

But she no longer felt an inclination to fly. When she saw how worn and thin her lover looked, she knew that he had been suffering as much as she had, and a full tide of love swelled to her heart. She also had lost much of her beauty, but she never thought of that. All she desired was to comfort the man that loved her. She felt that an explanation was due to him, and this she determined to give as far as she could without incriminating others.

Taking his hand in her own, she led him some little distance from the grave of Daisy; and they seated themselves on a flat stone in the shadow of the church, and a stone's throw from the park wall. Here they could converse without being seen, and if any one came they could hear the footsteps on the gravelled path, and so be warned. And throughout that short interview Anne listened with strained attention for the coming step. At the outset Giles noted her expectant look and put his arm round her.

"Dearest, do not fear," he said softly. "No one will come; and if any one does I can save you."

"No," she replied, turning her weary eyes on him. "I am under a ban. I am a fugitive from the law. You cannot save me from that."

"But you are innocent," he said vehemently.

"Do you believe that I am, Giles?"

"Do I believe it? Why should you ask me such a question? If you only knew, Anne, I have never doubted you from the first. Never! never!"

"I do know it," she said, throwing her arms round his neck. "I have known all along how you believed in my innocence. Oh, Giles, my darling Giles, how shall I be able to thank you for this trust?"

"You can, Anne, by becoming my wife."

"Would you marry me with this accusation hanging over me?"

"I would make you my wife at this moment. I would stand beside you in the dock holding your hand. What does it matter to me if all the foolish world think you guilty? I know in my own heart that you are an innocent woman."

"Oh, Giles, Giles!" Then her tears burst forth. She could weep now, and felt the better for that moment of joyful relief. He waited till she grew more composed, and then began to talk of the future.

"This can't go on for ever, Anne," said he decisively; "you must proclaim your innocence."

"I can't," she answered, with hanging head.

"I understand. You wish to protect this man. Oh, do not look so surprised. I mean with the man you fled with – the man Wilson."

"I don't know any one called Wilson."

"Anne!" – he looked at her keenly – "I implore you to tell me the truth. Who is this man you fled with to Gravesend – with whom you went on board the yacht?"

"Is that known?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Yes. A great deal is known."

"Portia never told me that," she murmured to herself.

"Who is Portia?"

"She lives at the Priory, and – "

"I see. She is the red-haired, freckle-faced girl – the daughter of Mr. Franklin. Morley told me that. Portia! What a stately name for that dreadful young person!"

"But indeed, Giles, she is a good girl, and has been a kind friend to me," explained Anne eagerly. "She told me all about you, and how you believed in my innocence."

"Ah!" exclaimed Giles, "then that was why she seemed so pleased to hear my name. I met her in the park just now, Anne – "

"You met her in the park?" Anne half rose to go. He drew her down.

"Yes, dearest. But don't be alarmed. She will never think that we have met. She was looking for this." And Giles took out the coin.

Anne gave a cry of delighted surprise. "Oh," she said, taking it eagerly, "I thought I had lost it forever. And you found it, Giles?"

"I found it," he replied gravely. "It was that discovery which made me believe that you were in the neighborhood. And then when Olga – "

"Olga." Anne looked at him suddenly. "Do you know her?"

"Very well. She is your friend."

"My best friend. She loves me like a sister."

Giles could have told her that the sisterly love was not to be trusted, but she had so much trouble that he could not find it in his heart to add to her worries. Besides, time was slipping by, and as yet he knew nothing of the truth of the matter.

"Tell me why you fled with that man," he asked.

"Giles, I will tell you all," she replied earnestly, "but on your part let me hear what is being done about the death of poor Daisy. It will set my mind at rest. You see how I have taken care of her grave, dear. Were I guilty would I do that?"

"I never thought you guilty," he repeated impatiently. "How many times have I to say that?"

"As many as you can bring your mind to repeat," she replied. "It is sweet to think that you love me so well, that you can refuse to believe evil of me in the face of the evidence against me."

"Anne, Anne, why did you fly?"

"Tell me how the case stands against me and what you have discovered," she asked in a composed voice, and with a visible effort to command her feelings. "And I shall tell you all that I can."

As time was precious Giles did not lose a moment. He plunged into the story of all that had taken place, from his interview with Mrs. Parry to the finding of the coin which had first given him his clue to the whereabouts of Anne. Also he touched lightly upon the visit of Olga to Rickwell, but was careful not to allude to her feelings towards him. Since Anne believed the woman to be her friend, he wished her to remain in that belief. He was not the one to add to her sorrows. And even when she was cleared of the charge and became his wife Ware determined that he would never speak of Olga's treachery. For her own sake he knew that the Hungarian would be silent.

Anne listened in silence to his recital, and when he ended drew a sigh of relief. "It might have been worse," she said.

"I don't see how it could be," replied Ware bluntly. "Morley will insist that you are guilty, and Steel thinks so too. I must admit that he wavers between you and this man you fled with. Come now, Anne, tell me all."

"I shall not have much time," she said hurriedly. "I dare not let Mr. Franklin know that I have met you. If I am not back in the Priory soon, he will send Portia to look for me."

"You can tell me much in ten minutes. Who is the man?"

"My father," she replied in a low voice.

Giles could hardly speak for surprise. "But your father is dead?"

"I thought he was," said Anne. "I have believed it these many months. But when I saw him in Mr. Morley's library on that night I knew that he still lived."

"But I can't understand how you made such a mistake. Does Morley know?"

She shook her head. "I managed to restrain myself. Mr. Morley knows nothing. Afterwards I went to the church in the hope of meeting my father. He was in church."

"I saw him," said Giles; "but tell me how the mistake occurred."

"My father lived in Florence, and – "

"Is his name Walter Franklin?"

"That is his real name; but he was known in Florence as Alfred Denham."

"You spoke to Olga Karacsay about him under that name?"

"Yes, because I did not know until lately that his name was Walter Franklin. Nor did I know that George Franklin, who inherits Daisy's money, was his brother."

"So George Franklin is your uncle and Portia your cousin?"

"Yes; but let me go on. My father lived in Florence. I was often away from home, as I was engaged as a governess. I came to England and met Olga at the Institute. I procured an engagement in London; it was the one I had before Mrs. Morley engaged me. I received news that my father was ill of typhoid fever. I hurried at once to Florence. He not only was dead, but he was buried, so I was informed by Mark Dane."

"Who is Mark Dane?"

"He was my father's secretary."

"One moment, Anne. Your uncle stated that he was the man who lived in Florence, and that your father being a scamp lived in England. On account of Walter George resided abroad."

"That is quite true. But Walter – I may speak of my father so for the sake of clearness – used to come sometimes to Florence. George never knew that he was there, thinking that he was in London. I learned all this lately. At the time my father and I lived in Florence I knew nothing of the relationship between George and Walter. My father knew that if Daisy died his brother would inherit the money, and he kept a watch on George so as to see if he would come into the property. But I knew nothing of this, neither did Mark, although he was deep in my father's confidence. Well, as I say, my father was supposed to have died. I expect another corpse was buried in his place. Mark no doubt agreed to the fraud, whatever was the reason. But I have not seen Mark since immediately after the death, and can't get an explanation. I saw him in Florence, and he told me that my father was dead and buried. Since then I have not seen him."

"So you returned to England, thinking your father was dead?"

"Certainly. He left me a little money. I went back to my situation. Afterwards I came down here. On that New Year's Eve I entered the library and saw my father speaking to Mr. Morley. I disguised my feelings, as I was certain he did not wish to be recognized. But the shock was so great that I nearly fainted. I went up to my room, and afterwards to church to see my father. He was there, as you know. I saw him pass a paper to Daisy. She went out ten minutes later; he followed. I wished to see him, and I was curious to know why he had come to Rickwell and had let me think he was dead. Shortly afterwards I went outside. It was snowing fast. I could not see my father or Daisy. Suddenly I came across my father. He was beside the grave of Mr. Kent. Daisy was lying on the ground. He gasped out that she was dead, and implored me to save him."

"Do you think he killed her?"

"No. Afterwards he denied that he did. But at the time I believed that he was guilty. I saw that he would be arrested, and in a frenzy of alarm I cast about for some means to save him. I remembered your motor-car was waiting at the gates. I sent Trim away on an errand – "

"I know, I know! You deceived him!"

"To save my father," replied Anne quietly. "I got the car in this way and went off with my father. He told me to go to Gravesend, where he had a yacht waiting. Near Gravesend the car upset. We left it on the roadside and walked to Tilbury. A boatman ferried us across the river, and we went on board the yacht."

"Did you know your father was the owner of the yacht?"

"No, I did not. He said that it belonged to a friend. We departed in the yacht and went to a French port, then on to Paris."

"And it was from Paris that you sent me the drawing of the coin."

"Yes; I knew that appearances were against me, and could not bear to think that you should believe me guilty. I did not dare to send any letter, but I knew you would recognize the drawing of the Edward VII. coin, and so sent it as you saw."

"How long did you stay in Paris?"

"For some weeks. Then we went to Italy, to Florence."

"Wasn't your father recognized?"

"No; he had altered his appearance. He gave me no reason at first for doing this, but afterwards told me that he was engaged in a political conspiracy, something to do with the Anarchists."

"Is the red cross the symbol of some society?"

"I can't say. He refused to explain the mystery of the cross to me. I admit fully, Giles, that I cannot understand my father. His ways are strange, and he leads a most peculiar life. Afterwards George Franklin, my uncle, came to England and inherited the property. My father sent me to him with an explanation. My uncle refused to believe that I was guilty, and gave me shelter in his house until such time as my character could be cleared. I came over and have been hiding in the Priory ever since. I was so sorry for poor Daisy and for her unexpected death that I came to see after her grave. I found it neglected, and thus went to clean it, as you see. Portia, my cousin, has been very good to me. I have stayed in all day and have walked out in the evening. No one knows that I am here. No one will ever know unless you tell."

"I tell? Anne, what do you take me for? I will keep quiet until I can clear your character, and make you my wife."

"You must not see me again."

"No," sighed Giles, "it will not be wise. But can't you tell me who killed Daisy, and thus clear yourself?"

Anne shook her head.

"I wish I could. But my father declares that he came out to see the girl, and found her already dead on the grave face downwards. She had been killed during the time he waited behind. He saw that there was a danger of his being accused of the crime, since he had asked her to leave the church. Thus it was that he lost his presence of mind and called on me to save him. I did so on the impulse of the moment, and thus it all came about."

"Where is your father now?"

Anne thought for a moment.

"I would tell you if I knew," she said seriously, "as I know you will not betray him. But I don't know where he is. Since I have been here I have not heard a word from him."