She was not really thinking of what she was saying, but was listening to the note in his voice that she knew meant he was interested and concentrating on what he was doing.

Then, as she turned her head back towards him, she was aware of a slight movement in the thick shrubs on one side of them.

For a moment she stared incredulously and then she saw pointing through the green leaves the barrel of a gun. She screamed and as she did so there was a loud deafening report.

Her cry saved Lord Dorrington’s life, for at the sound of it he had turned towards her and the bullet that would have killed him stone dead passed harmlessly through the crown of his hat blowing it to the ground.

It was then that Alyna, without conscious thought, using an instinct that acted without the bidding of her will, fired the pistol she held in her hand.

There was a sudden cry, the rustle of leaves and the breaking of twigs, as something heavy collapsed.

Lord Dorrington moved with extraordinary quickness to the shrubs.

He pulled them apart, looked down, turned and walked back to Alyna.

She was standing quite still, a smoking pistol in her hand.

He took it from her.

“Go back to the house, Alyna,” he said. “Tell no one what has happened.”

“Is the man – dead?” she asked, her face very pale.

“I think so,” he answered, “but I don’t wish you involved in this. Do as I tell you, Alyna.”

She looked up into his face for a moment unable to move.

He spoke again very quietly, yet it was unmistakably a command.

“Obey me and go the library. I will find you there!”

She felt as if she was a puppet in his hands and no longer had any will of her own.

She walked back to the house as he had told her and without looking back. She went into the library and sat down in one of the leather-covered chairs.

She had killed a man, and curiously she felt quite calm, almost unperturbed about it.

She had fired her pistol to save Lord Dorrington, obeying her instinct – an instinct so strong that not for one second did she question what she must do.

She knew now that had she not seen the gun pointing through the shrubs, it would be Lord Dorrington who was lying dead in the Bowling Alley and his assailant would have escaped in the confusion.

It would have been doubtful whether anyone would ever find him again.

But her scream had saved the man she loved and she was certain that, when the murderer was examined, he would be connected with the Prince.

She had known that no Oriental would tolerate Lord Dorrington’s beating without seeking revenge. And she knew still with a fatalistic feeling of despair that only the spilling of blood would wipe out the feud that existed between them.