Sandy began to see that the plans which he and Kitty had hastily thrown together in the dire emergency of the moment might serve well enough by way of temporary cover, but that in the long run they would rather complicate matters.  Lies would have to be bolstered up with other lies.  For example, what was he to do with Nan if he succeeded in persuading her to return?  Where was she really to spend the night?  It looked as though a veritable tissue of deceit must be woven if she were to be shielded from the consequences of her mad act.  And Sandy was not a bit of good at telling lies.  He hated them.

Suddenly into his harassed mind sprang the thought of Mallory.  Of all men in the world, surely he, who loved Nan, would find a way to save her!

From the moment this idea took hold of him Sandy felt as though part of the insuperable load of trouble and anxiety had been lifted from his shoulders.  His duty was now quite simple and straightforward.  When he reached down he had only to seek out Peter, lay the whole matter before him, and then in some way or other he believed that Nan’s errant feet would be turned from the dangerous path on which they were set.

There was something rather touching in his boyish faith that Peter would be able, even at the last moment, to save the woman he loved.

With unwonted forethought, born of the urgent need of the moment, he despatched the following telegram to Peter: 

“Coming to see you.  Arrive London to-night seven-thirty.  Very urgent.  Sandy McBain.”

“Well, young Sandy McBain?”

Peter looked up from a table littered with manuscript.  His face, a moment before rather troubled and stern, relaxed into a friendly smile, although the fingers of one hand still tapped restlessly on a sheet of paper that lay beside him—­a cablegram from India which had evidently been the subject of his thoughts at the moment of Sandy’s arrival.

“What’s the urgent matter?  Have you got into a hole and want a friendly haul-out?  If so, I’m your man.”

Sandy looked down wretchedly at the fine-cut face with its kind eyes and sensitive mouth.

“Oh, don’t!” he said hastily, checking the friendly welcome as though it hurt him.  “It—­it isn’t me. . . .  It’s Nan.”

Peter sat quite still, only the hand that held his pen tightened in its grip.

“Nan!” he repeated, and something in the tone of his voice as he uttered the little name seemed to catch at Sandy’s heart-strings and sent a sudden unmanageable lump up into his throat.

“Yes, Nan,” he answered.  Then, with a rush:  “She’s gone . . . gone away with Maryon Rooke.”

The penholder snapped suddenly.  Peter tossed the pieces aside and rose quietly to his feet.

“When?” he asked tensely.

“Now—­to-day.  If they’ve come to London, they’ll be here very soon.  They were in his car—­I saw them on the London road. . . .  And she left a letter for me. . . .  Oh, good God, Mallory!  Can’t you save her—­can’t you save her?” And Sandy grabbed the older man by the shoulder and stared at him with feverish eyes.