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Harold was startled.

Mrs. Rice, nodding her head grimly, said:

“Drink is responsible for a lot of unhappiness, Mr. Waring.”

“Does he drink?”

“Yes. And a good many other things as well. He’s insanely jealous and has a singularly violent temper.” She sighed. “It’s a difficult world, Mr. Waring. I’m devoted to Elsie, she’s my only child—and to see her unhappy isn’t an easy thing to bear.”

Harold said with real emotion:

“She’s such a gentle creature.”

“A little too gentle, perhaps.”

“You mean—”

Mrs. Rice said slowly:

“A happy creature is more arrogant. Elsie’s gentleness comes, I think, from a sense of defeat. Life has been too much for her.”

Harold said with some slight hesitation:

“How—did she come to marry this husband of hers?”

Mrs. Rice answered:

“Philip Clayton was a very attractive person. He had (still has) great charm, he had a certain amount of money—and there was no one to advise us of his real character. I had been a widow for many years. Two women, living alone, are not the best judges of a man’s character.”

Harold said thoughtfully:

“No, that’s true.”

He felt a wave of indignation and pity sweep over him. Elsie Clayton could not be more than twenty-five at the most. He recalled the clear friendliness of her blue eyes, the soft droop of her mouth. He realized, suddenly, that his interest in her went a little beyond friendship.

And she was tied to a brute. . . .

II

That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie Clayton was wearing a soft dull pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed, were red. She had been crying.

Mrs. Rice said briskly:

“I’ve found out who your two harpies are, Mr. Waring. Polish ladies—of very good family, so the concierge says.”

Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were sitting. Elsie said with interest:

“Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed hair? They look rather horrible somehow—I don’t know why.”

Harold said triumphantly:

“That’s just what I thought.”

Mrs. Rice said with a laugh:

“I think you are both being absurd. You can’t possibly tell what people are like just by looking at them.”

Elsie laughed.

She said:

“I suppose one can’t. All the same I think they’re vultures!”

“Picking out dead men’s eyes!” said Harold.

“Oh, don’t,” cried Elsie.

Harold said quickly:

“Sorry.”

Mrs. Rice said with a smile:

“Anyway they’re not likely to cross our path.”

Elsie said:

“We haven’t got any guilty secrets!”

“Perhaps Mr. Waring has,” said Mrs. Rice with a twinkle.

Harold laughed, throwing his head back.

He said:

“Not a secret in the world. My life’s an open book.”

And it flashed across his mind:

“What fools people are who leave the straight path. A clear conscience—that’s all one needs in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!”

He felt suddenly very much alive—very strong—very much master of his fate!

III

Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His French was halting and decidedly British in intonation. Of German and Italian he knew nothing.

Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In most hotels on the Continent, he had always found, everyone spoke English, so why worry?

But in this out-of-the-way spot, where the native language was a form of Slovak and even the concierge only spoke German it was sometimes galling to Harold when one of his two women friends acted as interpreter for him. Mrs. Rice, who was fond of languages, could even speak a little Slovak.

Harold determined that he would set about learning German. He decided to buy some textbooks and spend a couple of hours each morning in mastering the language.

The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold looked at his watch and saw that there was still time for an hour’s stroll before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then turned aside into the pine woods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a woman was