"I was in a regiment in India," he said. "Got a funny wound on a little frontier expedition, so they wouldn't pass me for active service. It's caught again now. And I had a friend; I badgered him until they sent me here to spy round on this coast—so they said. And all the time they had a regular secret service man at it, and were only keeping me quiet for friendship's sake. But I did find out something in the end. There was I watching the Professor, and fellows grinning as they read my reports about him. I knew you suspected me," he went on, "and even that you believed the money which I spoke of was German money. And it's only lately I realized that—that it hurt you to believe it, Gheena. You went alone so that no one else might see me. I hope to get back to my regiment next year to do real work. And—if you gave me this"—he fumbled at a note-case—"will you take it back and say it was not deserved?"
He pulled out a note-case and out of it a feather, once white. Gheena took it to see it was now stained red in one place—red with blood.
"I never gave it," she whispered. "Not that."
"Gheena," said Stafford, sitting up, "you didn't give it; it was Miss O'Toole. Oh, I say, Gheena! And you belong to Darby! Oh, I say, and I cared so much!"
Gheena was sobbing almost wildly over the little stained plume.
"But—I belong to Darby," she said, when she could speak. Somehow, brought suddenly face to face with the naked realities of life, explanations seemed useless things.
"Gone," said the Professor, running in, "off in his car." He sat down and groaned. "Waiting too long, as usual!" he stormed.
"Who has gone?" Gheena hid her face.
"Mrs. Weston, otherwise Heinrich Helshumer. She's left all there—shoes and stockings, and you might as well look for needles in hay, and she has a wireless there."
"Mrs. Weston," said Gheena weakly.