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good, removing the last streaks of mud as energetically as if they were stains on his honour.

Nonsense. They were both young and—plastic, they liked each other very much, they were not in love with anybody else, and things would arrange themselves. Especially as Pamela was jolie à croquer. . . . Besides, it was the only thing to do. . . .

He decided that he would speak to Attwood before approaching Mrs. Taylor, they would know better then how they stood; and, as it happened, he had no time the next morning for more than a moment’s interview with Pamela when she handed him over the precious pendant before Attwood needed the car for a long day’s journey.

Towards the end of the drive Tony grew rather nervous. It was such a long, startling yarn, Attwood would probably think his sober chauffeur was drunk or mad or sunstruck. It would be best to plunge straight into the story, but he did not enjoy the prospect; besides, he was regrettably vague on some points. For one thing he did not know the value of the pendant, and Pamela had not helped him much with that. “I really don’t know,” she had said. “It’s an awfully nice pearl—the one in the middle, I mean—but the diamonds are quite small.”

Tony had objected that he had seen smaller.

“Not much smaller—and of course they’re very bright. But I never thought about the value. Do you think there will be enough over, after you have cabled, and got train tickets and all that———”

“And marriage licenses———”

“—and marriage licenses, for me to get some clothes, because I’m dreadfully shabby?”

Tony’s eyes were very soft as he thought of her. Poor little girl, poor little Fairy Princess! She was shabby, there was no doubt about that—and indirectly it was all his fault. She would have died sooner than remind him of