It marked ten minutes to twelve on the tower of the ancient chantry church of Darnaston as Blanche Farrow walked across the village green and past the group of thatched cottages composing the pretty hamlet which looks so small compared with its noble house of God.

But, though she was early, the man she was to meet was evidently already there, for a big, mud-stained motor-car was drawn up in the lane which runs to the left of the church.
Feeling more and more apprehensive, she knew not of what, she walked up the path between the graves, and then suddenly she saw Mark Gifford--his spare, still active-looking figure framed in the stone porch, his plain, but pleasant, intelligent-looking face full of a grave welcome.
He stepped out of the porch and gripped her hand in silence.
She felt that he was deeply stirred, stirred as she had never known him to be--excepting, perhaps, on that occasion, years and years ago, when he had first asked her to be his wife.
Still holding her hand in that strong grasp, he drew her within the porch.

"I'm so grateful to you for having come," he said.

"I hope you didn't think what I did very odd ?" "I did think it just a little odd." She was trying to smile--to be her usual composed self.
"I couldn't come to Wyndfell Hall," he said abruptly, "for a reason which you will soon know.

But I had to see you, and, by a bit of luck, I suddenly remembered this splendid old church.