Briggs. But I thought I'd save the rest for when you came. Miss Olga always likes my rhubarb wine."
The rhubarb wine proved at least a welcome distraction, and under its genial influence Mrs. Briggs's spirits rose. She was quite cheery by the time her two visitors took their leave. They left her waving farewell from her doorstep, the patches of paste still upon her ruddy countenance, but with no other traces of her recent distress visible.
"Rum old thing!" said Violet. "I want to go round to the Priory and see Cork and Pluto next. I like to drop in unexpectedly when Bruce is away, and make sure that they are treated properly."
"We haven't much time," observed Olga.
"Oh, nonsense! Make time! We're not slaves," said Violet imperiously.
And Olga turned in the direction of the Priory without further words. It always took less time to yield to her friend's behests than to argue against them.
CHAPTER VII
THE PUZZLE
The visit to the Priory occupied some time, as Olga had foreseen. There were some things that Violet wanted to fetch from her own room and this entailed a search, for her possessions were always in the wildest disorder. Olga waited for her in the hall, chafing at the delay, since she knew that the car would be required by Max early in the afternoon to take him on his rounds.
Mitchel remained outside in the hot sunshine, severe disapproval in every line of him. Olga felt decidedly out of patience with him. As if it were her fault!
She sat on the old oak chest that Violet gaily called her coffin, and stared at the gruesome east window, while her thoughts dwelt upon the story she had just heard from Mrs. Briggs's lips. Had Max really intended to place freedom within the old woman's reach? For some reason wholly inexplicable she longed to know. She recalled the words he had uttered that day in the library of Redlands, his half-cynical talk of "a free pass," his reference to himself as "gaoler." Was it possible that she had formed a wrong impression of him? And if in this matter, perhaps in others also. Perhaps after all she had mistaken his attitude towards Violet. Perhaps after all he was human enough to feel the strong attraction of the girl's beauty. Perhaps after all he was beginning to care. And if so, what then? She felt her face burn in the coolness. Somehow she did not want him to be hurt, to suffer as she knew that other men had been made to suffer by the gay inconsequence of her friend. Only a week ago she had desired his ignominious downfall. To-day she wanted to save him from it. She had a desperate longing to warn him that Violet's favour was a thing of nought, that her treatment of him had all been planned between them beforehand, that it was all a game.
She could not picture him at any woman's feet. Yet undoubtedly Violet was hard to resist; their intimacy had grown apace during the past few days. And Violet knew so well how to wield her power, when to scorn and when subtly to flatter. She had never yet received a check in her triumphant career, and she boasted openly of her conquests.
No, Olga was fain to admit it. All her own private aversion notwithstanding, she did not want this man added to the list of victims. Cynical and even overbearing though he might be, she no longer desired to see him humiliated. And her face glowed more and more hotly as she remembered that it was she who had set the trap.
She fully realized, however, that an appeal to Violet at this stage would be worse than futile. Violet was too set on her mischievous course to do other than laugh and pursue it with renewed zest for her capture. Of course there remained Nick, chosen adviser and confidant; but for some reason Olga shrank from discussing Max with him. She had an uneasy dread lest Nick's intelligence should leap ahead of her and disclose to her with disconcerting suddenness facts and possibilities with which she was quite unprepared to reckon. She visualized his grin of amused comprehension over the means she had devised for her own deliverance and the unpleasant quandary in which it had placed her. Nick's sense of humour was at times almost too keen. She smiled faintly to herself over this reflection. She could not deny that there were points in the situation which appealed even to her own.
Yet she was more ashamed than amused. The discovery that Max was human had somehow altered everything, and made her own conduct appear dastardly. She had acted maliciously albeit, in self-defence; but now that it seemed that her point might pierce his armour, she wanted to withdraw it. She shrank unspeakably from seeing him vanquished. It would have hurt her to find him at her own feet, but the bare thought of him at Violet's—Violet who had no mercy upon old or young, who would trample him underfoot without a pang and pass gaily on—that thought was unbearable.
Of course she might be wrong. It was still possible that her original conception of him might be the correct one. He had a passion for his profession, she knew. It was quite possible that this had inspired his taking that awful risk the night before, quite possible also that a hopeless case did not appeal to him and that he had not therefore greatly cared how soon or in what manner Mrs. Stubbs had passed out through the prison-door which it was his work to guard. She realized vaguely that this form of callousness was not so hideous as she had at first deemed it. She also began to realize that for a man who had seen suffering and death in many forms and who found himself finally powerless to alleviate the one or avert the other, the inevitable end could not possess the tragic significance which it possessed for others.
Either point of view of his character was possible. She did not know him well enough to decide to her own satisfaction which was actually the true one. But the fact remained that she had delivered him to Violet to be tormented, and that before he had given any sign of suffering she had repented the rash act. He might be capable of suffering or he might not; but she had a passionate desire to know him safe before the fire had begun to kindle.
Violet's return at length broke up her reflections. She awoke from her reverie with a start to exclaim upon the lateness of the hour. It was already close upon luncheon-time.
"We shall have to scorch," laughed Violet.
And scorch they did at a rate that made the sober Mitchel swear inarticulately almost throughout the journey. They met with no mishap, however, and finally reached Weir flushed, dishevelled, but exultant.
Max came from the direction of the surgery as they entered.
"Can I speak to you a moment?" he said to Olga and drew her into her father's little smoking-room at the side of the hall almost before the words were uttered.
Olga faced him with a racing heart, burningly reminiscent of the note she had left in his hat, the note she had asked him to ignore.
He must have seen her embarrassment, for his green eyes studied her without mercy; but when he spoke it was not upon the subject of her overture.
"Look here!" he said. "Hunt-Goring is here. Do you mind if I ask him to luncheon?"
The news was unexpected. Olga gave a sharp, involuntary start. "Major
Hunt-Goring!" she stammered. "Why—what is he doing here?"
"He walked over with a broken thumb for me to mend," said Max, still grimly watching her. "It's some way back to The Warren, and he's a bit used up. I fancy your father would make him lunch here under the circumstances, but you must do as you think best. It's not my house."
The colour sank rapidly from Olga's face under his look. "Oh, Dr.
