Keith could observe through the cobweb lace which was fastened across her neck that her heart was beating far too fast for health and prudence. He looked at her earnestly. Her eyes were raised to his, and something of the passion which blazed in them was communicated to his breast. His intense unwillingness to fling himself at her feet – his almost aversion to her when he had learned a few days ago that she had committed a crime punishable by the law – left him. He said in a choking voice, —

"You want supper; I will get you a glass of champagne. Come with me."

He led her through the throng, put her into a cool seat by an open window, and brought her some champagne. She drank a glassful, and then handed the glass back to him. He laid it down. From where they sat the dreamy music of the band, the rhythmic steps of the dancers, the buzz of conversation, seemed far off and almost unreal. A curtain, gracefully arranged, almost concealed the figure of Kitty Hepworth; but the reflection of some fairy lamps in the wide balcony outside fell across her face, and Keith thought he had never seen such dark and such lovely eyes before.

Close to them, unseen and unnoticed, stalked the god of war. If it were given to him to smile, he must have smiled then as he saw the young pair, for Keith suddenly bent forward and took Kitty's hand in his own.

"This is Monday," he said, "and I go on Saturday."

She tried to speak, but found herself unable.

"Will you wait for me until I come back?" he said then.

His words were like an electric shock to the girl. Notwithstanding all her beauty, her attitude had been one which denoted extreme weariness, not to say despair; but now there shot through every fibre of her being the most rosy and golden hope.

"Will I wait for you, Gavon! Do you mean it?" she asked.

"I mean it," he said slowly. "Will you be my wife when I return home, Kitty?"

"I will go with you," she said. She took his hand in both her own and clasped it with feverish intensity. "You must not go alone. I will go with you."

"We cannot be married between now and Saturday," was his next remark.

"We can," she said, "by special licence. And what is money worth? I will go with you; you shall not go into danger alone."

"Wives are not expected to go with their husbands."

"With you, or without you, I will go south," she said. "And is it true that you really love me, Gavon?"

"I have always cared for you," he said then, very slowly, "and I will marry you when I return, Katharine."

"Before you go," she replied.

He shook his head.

For a wonder, Katherine Hunt was standing alone on a balcony; she had no cavalier close at hand – the daughter of the millionaire was to all appearance, for the time being, neglected. A man came close to her; she turned, and saw Captain Keith. There was a change in his face. She did not know whether he looked glad or sorry. He just came up to her and said briefly, —

"I should like to tell you something,"

"What is it?" she answered.

"I am going to marry the Silver Queen. Will you congratulate me?"

She gave a quick start; then she said quietly, —

"I congratulate you with all my heart. I trust she will make you happy."

"She is very fond of me," he said. "I hope we shall be happy. Thank you for your congratulations."

"Will you marry before you go south?" was her next remark.

"Certainly not. Can I take you anywhere?"

"No. I came out here to be alone. Don't tell anybody where I am. It is delightful to be in a crowd like this, and yet to be alone. I congratulate you again, Captain Keith. You said the other day that you were without chivalry. I think you have a great deal. Good-bye. Will you think I am taking a liberty if I say, 'God bless you'?"

"Indeed I do not," was his answer.

She held out her hand; he wrung it and went away. A moment later he had left the ballroom.

Katherine Hunt sat on alone.

"This dazes me," she said to herself. "He doesn't love her. Is she worthy of him? I must find out something else too," she thought impatiently, and now she looked towards the crowded ballroom.

Presently a man appeared – a tall man, with a florid face.

"Major Strause!" said the girl.

He came towards her at once. He had paid court to her assiduously for some time, always without the slightest result. She detested the man, reading his character well enough. He was delighted at the welcoming tone in her voice, and went quickly to her side.

"Is there the most remote chance of your giving me a dance?" was his first query.

"I think not," she answered. "My card has been full for a long time."

"Then may I at least have the privilege of staying with you until your next partner arrives?"

She was silent for a minute; then she said quickly, —

"You may stay on one condition."

"What is that?"

"I want to be introduced to a young lady, one of the guests."

"What young lady?"

"She is known as the Silver Queen. Her real name is Katherine Hepworth."

"What! Keith's young lady?" said Major Strause.

"Captain Keith," corrected Katherine Hunt.

"Captain Keith, if you like. We happened to be brother officers for a time in the same regiment. I thought he seemed very much taken with her the other day. But what can I do for you with regard to Miss Hepworth?"

"Will you bring her to me to be introduced, or shall I go with you? I want to see her, to speak to her, to look at her."

"Why this romantic interest?" queried Strause. "I do not know that there is anything very special about Miss Hepworth. She has a sister worth twenty of herself – a very fine girl indeed. Still, she is pretty, and, I believe, will have money."

"What has money to do with it?" asked Katharine Hunt. "I don't want to see her because she has money. I want to see her in order to speak to her. Can you introduce me?"

"I will try. Will you stay where you are? and I will, if possible, bring her back to you."

Major Strause re-entered one of the reception rooms Katherine Hunt waited in the balcony. Her heart was beating fast.

"I am curious – wonderfully curious," she said to herself. "I want to find out."

A moment later she heard a man's voice and a girl's silvery laughter. She turned. A girl with a radiant face – a face which beamed happiness on all around her – stood by her side. Major Strause performed the necessary introduction.

"I wanted to see you so badly," said Anne Boleyn. "Will you come with me, beautiful Silver Queen? – Major Strause, will you keep guard? I shall be everlastingly indebted to you." The major frowned; he evidently did not care for the rôle assigned to him. "And will you dine with us to-morrow night?" added Katherine. Whereupon his face cleared. He liked his dinners at the Hunts', and Katherine was quite cordial.

The two girls retired into a little alcove close at hand. They were in comparative solitude in this position, and what they said to each other could not be overheard. Katherine Hunt looked full at the excited, beaming, happy face of the Silver Queen.

"I am going to leap over conventionalities, and come direct to a subject which must be very near your heart," she said.

"What is that?" asked Kitty.

She looked with interest at Katherine Hunt. She had never seen her before, but she liked her face.

"You are one of those blessed ones," continued Miss Hunt, "whose privilege it is to help a man in a great emergency. All we girls in these ballrooms know that many of those we love best will soon be exposed to danger, to hardship – perhaps to death."

"Why do you remind me of it?" asked Kitty. She trembled as she spoke.

"Because such thoughts must have come to you: because I guess – nay, I know – your secret. I met Captain Keith a few days ago. He is engaged to you. He asked me for my congratulations."

"Did he?" replied Kitty. She held out her soft hand impulsively. "Congratulate me too," she said. "I can scarcely realize my great happiness. Yes, I am engaged to him, and if possible we will be married before Saturday, and I mean to go south with him."

"I don't know whether to admire or to upbraid you," said Katherine Hunt. "Sometimes a woman best shows her love by effacing herself."

"Mine is not that sort of love. It is selfish; I don't pretend to deny it," replied Kitty.

"I am sorry to hear you say so, for Captain Keith deserves an unselfish devotion. Shall I tell you how I first became acquainted with him?"

"Please do." Kitty leaned back as she spoke. She felt quite restful and very happy. All was right at last – her daring step had been crowned with success. Even the dress of the Silver Queen had been worth buying at the cost of honesty, for was not the prize she had coveted in her hand?

Katherine Hunt read the eager and charming face as though she would sift all its thoughts to the very bottom. She noticed, even in that moment of bliss and exultation, certain lines about the lips, certain weaknesses in the contour of chin and neck, which would develop into something more than weakness by-and-by. She felt a curious desire to wring this girl's secret from her. She knew that she was in a measure cruel, but she could not desist.

"I will tell you," she said, "it is such an exciting story. Do you know that on Thursday of last week – yes, I remember quite well, it was Thursday – I lost my purse."

"Your purse!" said Kitty. She half rose; but Katherine, with a very light, detaining hand, kept her seated.

"When your partner wants you he will find you out. Major Strause will be sure to see to that," she said.

"I beg your pardon," said Kitty. She sat back again. "Your purse!" she said. "I think the present style of pockets very unsafe."

"I did not lose it in that way. I had gone to my bank and drawn a hundred pounds. I had a few shillings in the purse at the time. My purse had the initials 'K.H.' in silver on it. It was a Russian leather purse. I left it in a hansom. Curious to say, I, who am one of the most reckless of girls, took the number of the hansom. It was 22,461. I had just got an invitation to go to Kenmuir House. My father had been angling for the invitation for some time. I was most anxious to go. I was wild with delight, and hurried off to my dressmaker, Madame Dupuys. Did you say anything?"

"Curious," said Kitty. "I – oh, nothing."

"Nothing! Do speak."

"She happens to be my dressmaker too – that is, if you mean Madame Dupuys in Bond Street."

"I mean the same. She made your exquisite dress, did she not?"

"Yes. I am sure I ought to go back to the ballroom."

"How uninteresting of you not to listen to the end of my story! But I will be quick. And I have not yet come to Captain Keith's part."

"But Gavon – "

"Who is Gavon?"

"Captain Keith's name is Gavon. But Gavon can have nothing to do with the story of your purse."

"You would certainly think not; but wait until you hear. I went to Madame Dupuys and put my hand in my pocket. The purse was gone! I made a great fuss, and said that I would go straight to Scotland Yard, as I happened to remember the number of the cab. I went there, but could get no tidings. The cabman had not brought the purse there; but as the number of his cab was known, the police said that they would look him up. I gave full particulars and returned home. I hoped to get my money back, and I expected some one to come to me from Scotland Yard with tidings at any moment. The hours passed, however, and no one came, and I was considerably annoyed. I am rich, but my father would be angry if I lost so much money. In the afternoon Captain Keith called to see me. I saw him. He said that he had called to restore me my lost money. He was sorry he could not let me have the purse as well. What is the matter?"

"My partner must be waiting for me," said Kitty. "And this place is too close," she added. "I cannot breathe comfortably."

She staggered out of the little retreat, and Katherine Hunt noticed that her face was as white as death. Major Strause was within view. Katherine led Kitty on to the balcony. She did not say anything more about the purse.

CHAPTER XIII.
KITTY'S PROPOSAL

A week after the events related in the last chapter Katherine Hunt was standing in her pretty sitting-room. It was about eleven o'clock in the morning. She had ordered her carriage to come round at half-past eleven. She meant to do a round of shopping, and afterwards to visit a hospital in which she took an interest, in East London. She was already dressed, in a smart jacket and pretty hat. She was drawing on her gloves, when the servant threw open the door and announced Miss Hepworth, and Kitty Hepworth came in.

Kitty's face was white, and all the joy and happiness which had beamed in it when Katherine first made its acquaintance, on the night of the fancy ball, had left it. She came up to Katherine, clasped both her hands, and said impulsively, —

"If you cannot help me, no one can."

"Do sit down, Miss Hepworth. Your visit astonishes me very much," said Katherine.

"When I tell you what I have come about, you will be still more astonished. I want you to do something great – tremendous. I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt of you three times running, and every time yours was the helping hand, yours the sustaining touch. I came to you without telling Aunt Louisa. I have come alone. Are you going out?"

"Yes; will you come with me?"

"You must not go out; we can talk best here. Countermand your carriage – that is, if you are going to drive. I claim this morning from you. You have forced yourself into my affairs, and I claim this morning; it is my right."

"I have forced myself into your affairs!" said Katherine Hunt. "What do you mean?"

For answer Kitty plunged her hand into her pocket.

"Here is your purse," she said. "You got back the money, and now here is the purse. Pretty, is it not? – soft Russian leather, and your initials in silver! Here it is back."

"My pretty, pretty purse!" said Katherine. She took it up, handling it with affection, and then put it down. "Now, what does this mean, Miss Hepworth?"

"Call me Kitty. We must be friends in future. Don't you want to ask me something?"

Miss Hunt thought for a moment; then she crossed the room and rang the bell. The servant appeared.

"Send a message to the stables, Jameson, and say that I shall not require the brougham this morning," said the young lady. "And, Jameson," she added, as the servant was about to withdraw, "don't admit any one. I shall be particularly engaged for the next hour or so."

The man promised compliance, and left the room.

"Now, Miss Hepworth, I am at your service," said Katherine Hunt.

Kitty was still standing. She was a forlorn-looking little figure. Without a word, she now raised her hand, pulled the pin from her hat, and put the hat on the table. Her pretty, curly hair was all tossed and untidy. The pallor in her small face was very marked, the black shadows under her big, dark eyes very apparent. Her sweet lips, too, had a sorrowful droop. But there was a queer, strange determination about the little creature which Katherine Hunt, knowing her story, as to a great extent she did, could not help, in a curious manner, respecting.

"You saw me a little over a week ago at Kenmuir House," continued Kitty. "You saw me on the happiest, the greatest night of my life – the night of my engagement."

"Ah! did Captain Keith propose for you that night?"

"He did; and I accepted him. I hoped he would propose that night. I hoped the dress would do the business. That was why I – " she turned very white, but her words came out bravely – "that was why I stole your purse."

"Sit down, Kitty," said Katherine, "sit down. If you grow any whiter you will faint, and I don't want you to faint on my hands."

"You knew that I stole the purse, and that was why you told me the story of it," said Kitty then.

"I did not know, but I wanted to know. I beg your pardon for my unwarrantable and cruel curiosity."

"Another person would have been still more cruel. And you may know; I don't mind your knowing. I did it because I love him."

"You will forgive me, Miss Hepworth, but it was a strange way of showing your love! Were you so poor – in such distress – that you must take my purse? Did you realize that you might get the driver of the hansom into serious trouble?"

"I never thought of the driver of the hansom; I only thought that the money which I needed was put into my hands by Providence."

"Rather say by the devil!"

"Very likely. And yet," said Kitty, "it did achieve its purpose."

Katherine Hunt was silent.

"Shall we agree," she said then, after a long pause, "not to speak of this any more? You know, and I know, and Captain Keith knows. Whatever your motive was, the deed is done. The money has been restored to me; even the purse has been restored. Shall I forget, and will you forget? I think he at least will act as if he forgets."

"But he can never forget – never, never!" said Kitty Hepworth.

"We must all act – we three who know must act as if we forgot," continued Katherine Hunt. "You may rest assured with regard to me. I did not respect you the other night – I will own it – but I respect you now. You were brave to bring back the purse, and you were still braver to acknowledge that you did what you did. I respect you, and I will act as if I quite forgot. Is that why you have come? If so, rest assured – all is well."

"I came for this; but this is only a small matter compared with what I want to say now," said the girl. "Don't you wonder – that is, if you think of anything at all in connection with me – why I am here to-day?"

"No; why should I wonder?"

"And yet I told you I was engaged to Captain Keith!"

"You told me, and he told me. By-the-way," continued Katherine Hunt, "of course I ought to wonder. He has left, has he not?"

"He sailed on Saturday, and my sister Mollie, who is one of the nursing sisters, has gone too. Gavon is ordered to Dundee, in the neighbourhood of Ladysmith, and Mollie is ordered straight to Ladysmith, where there is a hospital, and where the wounded are to be taken. I wanted to go with Mollie, but she would not hear of it; I wanted to go with Gavon, but that also was impossible."

"I thought there was a possibility of your being married before he left?"

"I wanted it, but Aunt Louisa would not hear of it. Gavon left me to her care, and he left her to my care. I have said good-bye to him, and he thinks I shall not see him until the war is over; and he knows that there is a great, a dreadful possibility of his never coming back. But he does not know me after all, for I cannot rest under such terrible conditions. I must follow him."

"But, Miss Hepworth, surely this is madness! If you love him, you will sacrifice your own feelings rather than put him to needless pain."

"I love him," said Kitty, and there was an obstinate note in her voice, "but not in that noble, heroic sort of fashion. I love him – I suppose selfishly. I cannot keep away from him; I must be close to him – by his side. Sometimes I am visited by a fear – oh, I won't tell you; there may be nothing in it – but I don't want him to be alone with – with Mollie. And I want to go – to be close to him! I will go to Ladysmith. He is certain to get to Ladysmith sooner or later. I shall sail in the next ship that goes to Durban, and get to Ladysmith by hook or by crook!"

"You are plucky," said Katherine, "only I don't think you are right. On the contrary, I think you are wrong; but, all the same, you are plucky."

"I am glad you think me plucky," replied Kitty. "And now I come to my great request – my request – and the reason of this visit."

"Well, my dear?"

"I want you to come with me."

"I!" said Katherine Hunt. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Oh, you must, you must! I have thought it all out, and I am determined to win you over; for women like you, strong, and brave, and daring, are wanted in a time of war. You must go in some capacity – in some fashion. Oh, won't you, Miss Hunt, won't you? And won't you take me with you? You are rich, and strong, and young. Won't you, won't you go?"

"You are mad, Kitty Hepworth!"

"Perhaps I am. Anyhow, I want you to go. If you don't, I will go alone, and then perhaps I shall fail. I may never get to Ladysmith, for the country is already, they say, in the hands of the enemy; but if you come with me I shall succeed. Think of it; think it over for twenty-four hours. We must leave here on Friday. Oh, will you come? You have nothing, surely, to keep you at home; and it means so much to me. Will you promise?"

"You ask me, calmly and coolly, a girl whom you scarcely know, to leave my father and go with you on a wild-goose chase!"

"It is not a wild-goose chase. It would be in your case an act of nobility. You can make some excuse to your father; you can arrange things. I will give you just twenty-four hours; then I will come for your answer. If you go with me, I shall be all right; if you don't go with me, I shall go alone. Now think it over; don't say no at present." As Kitty spoke she rose. "I dreamed of you three times last night," she said, "and you seemed to be the way out – the only way out. I feel, somehow, that you will go."

As she said the last words she held out her hand to Katherine Hunt. Katherine grasped it; then she looked into the little face, so childish, so obstinate, so weak, and yet so strong. She drew Kitty towards her, and laid a light kiss on her forehead.

"Although you stole my purse I kiss you," she said. "Now, never again will we allude to this."

"And you will think it over?"

"You certainly are the most startling, original, impossible child!"

"But you will think it over?"

"I will think it over."

"And may I come to see you to-morrow?"

"Come at this hour; but don't be too terribly disappointed, Kitty, if I am obliged to say no."

Kitty smiled; her smile was radiant. She raised Katherine's hand, pressed it to her lips, and ran out of the room.

Kitty let herself out of the great house. Katherine Hunt was so stunned that she forgot the ordinary duties of hostess. It was only when she heard the slight bang of the hall door, which Kitty made in shutting it after her, that she seemed to awake from a sort of dream. She sank down on a sofa, clasped her long, slender fingers together, and was lost in thought. How long she thought she never knew, but she was roused at last by the servant announcing lunch.

She went into the dining-room. Her father often came home to lunch, and he was present to-day.

"My dear Kate," he said, "are you well? Is anything the matter?"

"I am well," replied Katherine, "but there is a great deal the matter."

"My child, what?"

"I will tell you to-night, father. Shall you be dining at home to-night?"

"Yes, if you wish it. I had thought of dining at the club; but if you wish it, Kate, I will come home."

"I should like you to come home; I may have something to talk over."

Mr. Hunt agreed.

"Just as you like, of course," he said. He looked hard at her, and an uneasy sensation stirred within him.

She was the idol of his life; she was all the child he had ever had; she represented everything that made his money valuable. He was a rough diamond – a rough sort of man in every sense of the word. But he was tender, and gentle, and chivalrous to Katherine. He had always been tender and chivalrous to her. He respected her; she was a good girl, and he knew it. He trusted her implicitly. If he had a dread in life, it was that some day she might leave him; she might do what in his opinion all worthy women did – seek a husband and a home of her own. He did not want this. The thought of her marrying did not annoy him, but the thought of her leaving him was almost unbearable. If only he could secure a son-in-law who would be submissive – who would be satisfied to live at home, to share the big house with Katherine and himself – then, indeed, he would consider himself a lucky man. But no such son-in-law had ever loomed across his horizon, and he was not the man to seek one. He was a keen business man, but he could do nothing towards making an establishment for Katherine. His dread now, as he looked into her face, was that a son-in-law of the undesirable sort – a man who would want to take his one ewe lamb away from him – had appeared; that Katherine had found her mate, and was going to leave him.

"For if she does want to go, I can't refuse her," he thought. "Although it break my heart, I can't refuse her anything."

So he went away a little anxious and slightly perturbed. Katherine would not ask him to come home to dinner for a mere nothing.

Meanwhile that young lady thought out her thoughts, and having arranged them compactly and neatly to her own satisfaction, she proceeded to act. She was very sensible, very wise. She was also very clever. From her earliest days she had possessed a talent for writing. She had written smart articles more than once for the different newspapers. She was rather in request as society correspondent to a weekly, which, for the purposes of this story, we will call The Snowball. The Snowball had on several occasions published a series of papers by this young lady, and now Katherine Hunt drove straight to the office in order to interview the editor.

Times were busy for newspaper people. Newspaper proprietors and editors were at their wits' end as to how to shove and push into their papers all the interesting items with regard to the war which were pouring in by Reuters and every other telegraphic agency. The editor of The Snowball would not have seen any other outside correspondent that day; but Katherine Hunt was a valuable contributor to his paper, and he sent a message that he would spare her a few moments. She entered his office in her usual bright, brisk fashion, and came to the point at once.

"I want to make a request, Mr. Henderson," she said.

"What is that, Miss Hunt? We have no room for your special line of work just now; every scrap of available space is required for war intelligence. Where this war will end God only knows! The impression amongst most people is that with a small force we shall bring the Boers to their senses; but I, for one, think that the future of the war is larger, and involves more serious issues, than most of my confrères seem to think. What can I do for you?"

"I called to say that I am going to South Africa on Friday," said Katherine Hunt.

"You!"

"Yes. I want you to give me the proud position of your war correspondent at Ladysmith."

"Miss Hunt!"

"I should make a good correspondent, and will send you the news as direct as I can."

The editor hesitated.

"Our circulation is scarcely large enough to warrant our meeting your expenses," he said then. "I could not pay much for the articles."

"It is not a question of money," said Katherine, rising. "Pay me what you think fair; but the remuneration need not stand in the way. If you decline my offer, I shall go to the office of The Sparrow and make the same proposal to its editor. I should like to write for you, or for some paper, because I should go out to South Africa in a more assured position as a war correspondent. That is all."

A moment or two later Katherine left the office, having got the post she coveted. The editor knew that he would be a madman to refuse so golden a chance.