"More distinguished-looking than pretty. A most interesting woman to talk to-which is as far as my acquaintance extends. A keen spiritualist."

"Yes-I can see now. She's got one of those white, peaky faces. Is she well-off?"

"I really can't say. She has fashionable clothes and jewels. I am merely on nodding terms with her."

"She seems t be coming here. I think I'll go."

"No-don't, please, Miss Loment! It will look too marked. I'll just introduce you and you can take your departure immediately."

Isbel bent her mouth into a scornful little smile. "As you please. It's rather bad luck, but, anyway, she won't know me from Eve…Do tell me a train back. I expect you have a time-table."

He had, and produced it for consultation at once. While he was hurriedly turning over the leaves, Mrs. Richborough advanced upon them with a quickened step and a sudden smile of recognition-but, somehow, Isbel had a suspicion that the meeting was not quite so unpremeditated. All her poses were so accurately graceful and studied that the latter wondered if, by any chance, she could be a mannequin on holiday; her heels were perfect stilts. The face, however, when she came close up, was a good thirty-six or seven, and was not even decently pretty for that age. It was long, thin, and pale, with high cheek-bones and a fixed, insolent smile, which expressed nothing at all except pretension. But it was very beautifully made-up-so much so that it almost required another woman to see that it had been touched at all. Her whole toilette, from clothes to perfume, was based on an appeal to sex, and, men being such crude animals, Isbel thought that it was quite possible she might still pick up an occasional victim here or there…She glanced down at her own shabby tweeds, and smiled ironically.

"May I come in out of the weather? What a delightfully unexpected meeting!" Mrs. Richborough, without waiting for permission, stepped under the shelter and shook out her muff.

Judge, still holding the open time-table in his hand, rose with a courteous smile and removed his hat; he continued standing.

"It is indeed a pleasant surprise! But aren't you terribly wet?"

"A little…Am I intruding?" Her voice was quiet, sweet almost to lusciousness, and very leisurely. Each word was produced with a distinctness nearly theatrical, but at the conclusion of all her periods she had the strange trick of dropping to a whisper.

"Not in the least," replied Judge. "We're cast up here by the rain, and very thankful to see a new face. This is a friend of mine…Miss Loment-Mrs. Richborough…I'm just in the act of looking up a train for Miss Loment, if you'll pardon me a minute."

Mrs. Richborough sank lightly down next to Isbel.

"You aren't a Worthing resident, then?"

"Oh, no. Do I look like one?"

"I hardly know how one distinguishes them by appearance. Then you come from…?"

"From Brighton. Why?"

The widow laughed. "I really can't say why I'm asking. Why does one ask these things? So Mr. Judge is in Fortune's good graces this morning. Was yours accidental, too?"

"My what?…I fear the rain won't have done your beautiful furs much good."

"Isn't it perfectly distressing? And I so hoped it was to be fine. You have been sensible, at any rate."

"You mean my get-up? Oh, I put these on specially to come over here."

Mrs. Richborough glanced at the little parcel on Isbel's lap. "Surely you didn't bring lunch with you?"

"Oh, no; I'm only here on business."

Judge at last succeeded in finding a train. It would convey her to Brighton in time for luncheon, but she would have to start for the station at once, and lose no time on the way.

Mrs. Richborough held out her hand. "I hope we shall resume the acquaintance under more propitious circumstances."

Isbel returned the slightest and coldest of bows, deliberately overlooking the hand.

"No, don't trouble to come with me, Mr. Judge," she said, touching his fingers, with a smile. "People who run for trains aren't very good company, and I know the way quite well."

And she immediately set off through the rain in the direction of the railway station.

Chapter XII MRS. RICHBOROUGH'S ERRAND

Wednesday afternoon turned out cold and fine, with a watery sun. Isbel arrived at the rendezvous at a few minutes before the appointed time, but Judge was not yet there.

She was fashionably but inconspicuously dressed in a dark serge costume, with skunk furs; at the back of her mind was the desire to correct any possible wrong impression caused by her unfortunately-chosen attire of yesterday. After pacing up and down the parade in front of the Baths for a good while, however, with carefully assumed nonchalance, she began to fear that her forethought would be wasted; no one even distantly resembling Judge was in sight.

Her feelings passed from disappointment to impatience, and thence to anger, by the gradations which familiar to everyone who has ever been kept waiting. At a quarter past three she decided that it was inconsistent with her dignity as a woman to stay for his good pleasure any longer…yet five minutes later she had still not dragged herself away from the spot…

She was really going, when she caught sight of a familiar person approaching her-a surprising vision, which caused her to catch her breath and turn rather pale. It was Mrs. Richborough. She was mincing along the parade, without any great appearance of haste, from the direction of Brighton. Her furs were still very much in evidence, but they were different from those she had worn yesterday, being even heavier and more expensive-looking; she had on a smart black velvet togue, ornamented with a single paradise feather, and was wearing quite new white gloves. Isbel feared that her presence there was directly connected with Judge's absence; she felt wretchedly sure that something must have happened to him. Without standing on pretence she hurried to meet the widow.

They met, and lightly touched hands-Mrs. Richborough with a correct smile, but Isbel too worried to think of observances.

"I suppose you come from Mr. Judge?" she demanded, at once.

"I do, and I'm frightfully sorry I couldn't get here before, for I know what girls are when they're disappointed…but really-I'm so out of breath with running here…you will excuse me, won't you? The trains, as usual, are running just at the wrong time…You see how distressed I am with hurrying."

"Never mind. Why couldn't he come himself?"

"He's unwell…No-not badly. A chill on the liver, or something of the kind. Of course, we know he's not as young as he was. He wanted to come, but I wouldn't hear of it. rather than that he should risk more serious complications, I offered to act as messenger myself…Shall we sit down?"

"You're sure it's nothing serious?"

"Oh, my dear!…It's only a cold. He'll be all right to-morrow again."

They sat down side by side on one of the public seats. Mrs. Richborough made a feint of recovering her breath, which Isbel did not condescend to notice.

"Have you brought a note from him, or is it a verbal message?"

"It's a letter, my dear. I'm going to find it in a minute." She opened her hand-bag, and peered into it with provoking leisureliness…"Do you know, I feel quite an intrigante. Of course, it isn't a romance, but I've been amusing myself all the way here by imagining it really to be one. I've a fearfully romantic disposition."

"Oh, it's only about his house, which my aunt proposes to buy."

"How disillusioning!…So you act as her business manager?"

"I help her sometimes. Is that the note?"

"It's a little crumpled, but otherwise quite intact."

Isbel turned the large, square envelope over in her hand; it was unaddressed, but sealed with yellow wax. Contact with Mrs. Richborough's scent-sachet in her bag had invested it with a heavy feminine odour. She examined the sealing-wax more closely than was altogether courteous.