“Please don’t laugh!” said Mrs. Coombe a trifle fretfully.  “At least not so loudly.  You startle me.  My nerves are so wretched.  And anyway it’s more serious than you seem to think.  We shall have to discuss ways of managing so that people will not know.  Your being already acquainted with Esther will help.  It will make your coming to the house quite natural.  But it will be better to admit that we knew each other years ago, were boy and girl friends or something like that.  Your change of name and my marriage will explain perfectly why we did not know each other until we met.  Nobody will go behind that.  They will think it quite romantic.  The only one we need be afraid of is Esther.  She is so quick to notice—­”

She did not know about Esther then?  She had never guessed that the girl was more to him than a mere acquaintance.  Thank God for that!  And thank God, above all, that the worst had not happened—­Esther herself did not know, would never know now—­

“I believe it can come quite naturally after all,” Mary went on more cheerfully.  “No one will wonder at anything if we say we are old friends.  And we can be specially careful with Esther.  I wouldn’t have her know for anything.  She is like her father.  She would never understand.  She doesn’t know what it is to be afraid, as I was afraid of my mother.  Do you think it is wicked that sometimes I’m glad she is dead, mother, I mean?”

He answered with an effort.  “You used to be fond of your mother, Molly.”

“Oh, don’t call me Molly.  Call me Mary.  It will sound much better.  No one has ever heard me called Molly here.  If Esther heard it she would wonder at once.  You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Yes.  I shall be careful.”  He had not heard what she said, save that she had mentioned Esther’s name.  Rather he was thinking with a gratitude which shook his very soul that fate had at least spared the innocent.  Esther was safe.  She did not love him.  He felt sure of that now.  Strange irony, that his deepest thankfulness should be that Esther did not love him.

A small hand fell like a feather upon his arm.

“Harry!”

“Yes, Molly!”

He looked down into her quivering face and saw in it, dimly, the face of the girl in his locket, not a mere outward semblance this time but the soul of Molly Weston, reaching out to him across the years.  Her light touch on his arm was the very shackle of fate.  Her glance claimed him.  Nothing that she had done could modify that claim—­the terrible claim of weakness upon the strength which has misled it.

Vaguely he felt that this was the test, the ultimate test.  If he failed now he was lost indeed.  Something within him reached out blindly for the strength he had dreamed was his, found it, clutched it desperately—­knew that it held firm.

He took the slight figure in his arms, felt that it still trembled and said the most comforting thing he could think of.  “Don’t worry, Molly.  No one will ever know.”