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to assure herself that he was really there beside her, tangible flesh and blood. He squeezed the searching fingers, and they walked on at a good pace.

“But, Tony———” It had suddenly occurred to Pamela how miraculous his appearance was—surely he should have been in England? And—after all, it did seem rather unlikely that any news from California should have reached him. But, if not, why had he refused to recognise her?

“Why are you still in Australia? You did mean to go on to England—to Trent Stoke?”

“Never!” he said cheerfully. (It must all come out now, he might as well confess straight away and have done with it; besides, here was something clear and definite, of which he was not afraid—something to grapple with.) He smiled in Pamela’s puzzled eyes.

“But—why? How extraordinary everything is! And—did you know who I was the minute you saw me after all?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you pretend not to be yourself?”

“Because I wanted you to think I was dead.”

“So that I should have to go back to Trent Stoke? Oh, Tony!”

“Exactly. And I managed it so well too,” he added regretfully.

“But it was dreadful of you. I had no idea you minded as much as that. . . . But how should I have heard you were dead?”

“Have you seen the papers?”

“No. At least, I didn’t see anything like that.”

“There are paragraphs in all of them about the death of Lord Trent in a desert, trying to reach Tanami.”

“A desert? But did you really go into a desert?”

“I did.”

“Tony! You might really have died.”

“I might. But you see I didn’t.”