CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL Hugh d'Argent sat speechless, returning the Bishop's steady gaze.
No fear was in his face; only a great surprise.
Presently into the eyes of both there crept a look which was half-smile, half-wistful sorrow, but wholly trustful; a look to which, as yet, the Bishop alone held the key.
"So you know, my lord," said Hugh d'Argent.
"Yes, my son; I know." "Since this morning ?" "Nay, then! Since the first day you arrived with your story; asking such careful questions, carelessly.

But be not wroth with yourself, Hugh.

Faithful to the hilt, have you been.

Only--no true lover was ever a diplomat! Matters which mean more than life, cannot be dissembled by true hearts from keen eyes." "Then why all the talk concerning Seraphine ?" demanded the Knight.
"Seraphine, my son, has served a useful purpose in various conversations.

Never before, in the whole of her little shallow, selfish life has Seraphine been so disinterestedly helpful.