THE YELLOW DOVE
moist eyes and on her lips which were whispering words that she hoped could follow him into the distance. Her Cyril, still hers, and England’s—the Honorable Cyril whom the world had come to know as the Yellow Dove.
She stood in the shelter of the rocks, for she knew now in which way her duty to Cyril lay, and waited until the aëroplane was but a speck against the sky, when she turned with a sigh which was almost a gasp of weariness and walked slowly toward her horse. The ride before her was long, but by good riding she might still reach Kilmorack House before Lady Betty’s guests were up. Otherwise her reputation was gone. She knew that, for she could make no explanation of any kind. On that she was
Quick footsteps behind her—her arms caught from behind—a glimpse of a strange face and then something white over her head—a pungent odor and—unconsciousness.
