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and Clare duly carried out her project. The small town of Skippington was about forty miles away, a long run, but Reeves, the vet there, was celebrated for many miles round.
    He diagnosed certain internal injuries, but held out good hopes of recovery, and Clare went away quite content to leave Rover in his charge.
    There was only one hotel of any pretensions in Skippington, the County Arms . It was mainly frequented by commercial travellers, for there was no good hunting country near Skippington, and it was off the track of the main roads for motorists.
    Lunch was not served till one o’clock, and as it wanted a few minutes of that hour, Clare amusedherself by glancing over the entries in the open visitors’ book.
    Suddenly she gave a stifled exclamation. Surely she knew that handwriting, with its loops and whirls and flourishes? She had always considered it unmistakable. Even now she could have sworn–but of course it was clearly impossible. Vivien Lee was at Bournemouth. The entry itself showed it to be impossible:
    Mr and Mrs Cyril Brown. London.
    But in spite of herself her eyes strayed back again and again to that curly writing, and on an impulse she could not quite define she asked abruptly of the woman in the office:
    â€˜Mrs Cyril Brown? I wonder if that is the same one I know?’
    â€˜A small lady? Reddish hair? Very pretty. She came in a red two-seater car, madam. A Peugeot, I believe.’
    Then it was! A coincidence would be too remarkable. As if in a dream, she heard the woman go on:
    â€˜They were here just over a month ago for a weekend, and liked it so much that they have come again. Newly married, I should fancy.’
    Clare heard herself saying: ‘Thank you. I don’t think that could be my friend.’
    Her voice sounded different, as though it belongedto someone else. Presently she was sitting in the dining-room, quietly eating cold roast beef, her mind a maze of conflicting thought and emotions.
    She had no doubts whatever. She had summed Vivien up pretty correctly on their first meeting. Vivien was that kind. She wondered vaguely who the man was. Someone Vivien had known before her marriage? Very likely–it didn’t matter–nothing mattered, but Gerald.
    What was she–Clare–to do about Gerald? He ought to know–surely he ought to know. It was clearly her duty to tell him. She had discovered Vivien’s secret by accident, but she must lose no time in acquainting Gerald with the facts. She was Gerald’s friend, not Vivien’s.
    But somehow or other she felt uncomfortable. Her conscience was not satisfied. On the face of it, her reasoning was good, but duty and inclination jumped suspiciously together. She admitted to herself that she disliked Vivien. Besides, if Gerald Lee were to divorce his wife–and Clare had no doubts at all that that was exactly what he would do, he was a man with an almost fanatical view of his own honour–then–well, the way would lie open for Gerald to come to her. Put like that, she shrank back fastidiously. Her own proposed action seemed naked and ugly.
    The personal element entered in too much. She could not be sure of her own motives. Clare wasessentially a high-minded, conscientious woman. She strove now very earnestly to see where her duty lay. She wished, as she had always wished, to do right. What was right in this case? What was wrong?
    By a pure accident she had come into possession of facts that affected vitally the man she loved and the woman whom she disliked and–yes, one might as well be frank–of whom she was bitterly jealous. She could ruin that woman. Was she justified in doing so?
    Clare had always held herself aloof from the backbiting and scandal which is an inevitable part of village life. She hated to feel that she now resembled one of those human ghouls she had always professed to despise.
    Suddenly the Vicar’s words that morning flashed across her mind:
    â€˜ Even to