Daisy was sobbing quietly.
"Was it he?" she said.
"Yes, I feel sure of it," Philip replied. "For I can supply the missing link. The one time I really quarrelled with Arthur was when we were in Siberia. He would spend a night in a dying leper's hut. I would have done it myself, I believe and hope, had it been necessary. But by riding on a few miles we could have got help for the poor creature—which indeed I did—and more efficient help than ours. But Lingard was determined, and no ill seemed to come of it. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. I never associated it with the mystery that caused you such anguish, my poor darling."
"It was he," whispered Daisy. "Philip, he was a hero after all."
"Not even you can feel that, as I do," Keir replied.
Then they were silent.
A few weeks afterwards came a letter from Lady West, in her far-off South American home. Daisy had not heard from her for years.
"By circuitous ways, I need not explain the details," she wrote, "I have learnt that my darling brother is dead. I thought I had better tell you. I am sure his most earnest wish was that you should live to be happy, dear Daisy, as I trust you are. And I know you have long forgiven him the sorrow he caused you—it was worse still for him."
"I wonder," said Daisy, "if she knows more?"