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jogged over the moor road. He was looking about him with a grave air of concentration, as if he were anxious to capture every detail of the route and store it in his mind. Once, Ruth was aware that he had turned and was looking at her with that same strange, questing concentration, but she kept her eyes on the little mare’s bobbing head and did not return her guest’s scrutiny.
    When they came to the edge of the moor she pointed out the farm.
    “That’s Conningscliff over there, at the end of that lane of trees.” She reined the mare in and pointed towards the cliffs, where a vague band of grey sea stretched away towards the horizon. “We’re quite near the sea,” she continued, “and there’s a small sandy bay just over the dunes there. The house behind the grey wall is Carbay Hall. You can see it quite plainly now when the trees are not fully in leaf. Squire Veycourt owns most of the
    land around here.”
    Ruth wondered if she was boring him with her quick descriptions.
    “Go on,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”
    “Six years. We were farming Conningscliff, but my father had an accident ...”
    She could not bring herself to speak much of that yet, and the man by her side seemed to understand.
    “Recently, I suppose,” he said. “That was the idea for the Guest House, then?”
    “Yes,” she confessed. “It seemed the best thing to do. I suppose a woman could run a farm, but not successfully enough to keep a place like Conningscliff out of debt. I confess my limitations. It’s a man’s job!”
    “You’ve taken on a heavy enough responsibility as it is,” he said quickly. “Is your father a complete invalid?”
    “At the moment—yes.” The tears were very near Ruth’s eyes. “In time, perhaps, something might be done ...” “I’m sorry,” he said.
    They were nearing the farm now, jolting pleasantly under the leafy canopy of trees which led up to the white gate.
    “This is my first holiday in England for many years,” he volunteered abruptly.
    “I hope you will like it here,” she said. “If you want a rest it is an ideal spot.”
    They were through the white gate now, and the wheels were crunching over the cinder track. He looked round at her.
    “I don’t want a rest so much,” he said slowly. “I want to feel the wind in my face, and a sea fret round me now and then, and a breeze that’s cold and invigorating coming across the moor. You can’t understand what that means until you’ve lived for eight years in India without a break!”
    “Perhaps you’ve been home-sick, too—a little,” she suggested.
    A frown creased his forehead for a moment.
    “Perhaps I have,” he said, and his eyes sought the rugged line of cliff above the grey North Sea.
    Peg had flung open the big front door and was standing back in the dimness of the hall awaiting them. Travayne entered and looked about him with frank curiosity. His lips were compressed a little, and with an odd, sick feeling at her heart, Ruth felt that he
    was disappointed in the place.
    “Will you show Mr. Travayne to his room. Peg?” she said, turning to the beaming Mrs. Emery.
    “Yes, Miss Ruth.”
    Peg would have lifted the suitcase, but Travayne forestalled her. She turned back to Ruth before they mounted the stairs.
    “There’s a Miss Grenton just arrived, too,” she said. “She came by road, an’ she said she was early. Will Finberry’s showing her where to put her car.”
    Ruth excused herself to Travayne and hurried through the kitchen to greet her other guest. In the flagged yard she found Will Finberry escorting her towards the house.
    Valerie Grenton was a typical product of the modern fashionable world. Daughter of an over-indulgent father who had made his money from the manufacture of a popular brand of boiled sweets, she had been denied nothing from the first day she could lisp a request. She owned her own luxurious car, and did exactly what she liked with her rather useless life. Her father made