his own suffering was.

"You shall not go alone, Andrew," he said softly. "But for the present
we must wait. If any one can help us, Spencer will."

A servant came in with the whisky and glasses, and silently arranged
them upon the table. Duncombe rose and attended to his duties as host.

"Can I get you anything further, sir?" the man asked.

"Nothing, thanks," Duncombe answered. "Tell the servants to go to bed.
We will lock up. Say when, Andrew!"

Andrew took his glass mechanically. Out in the lane the silence of the
summer night was suddenly broken by the regular tread of horses' feet
and the rumbling of vehicles. Duncombe Hall was built like many of the
old-fashioned houses in the country, with its back to the road, and the
window at which they were sitting looked out upon it. Duncombe leaned
forward in his chair.

"Visitors by the last train going up to Runton Place," he remarked.
"Runton has quite a large party for the first. Hullo! They're stopping.
I'd better go out."

He rose from his chair. The omnibus had stopped in the lane, and they
could hear the voices of the occupants clearly through the soft
darkness. Some one was apparently getting out, and stumbled. A girl's
soft laugh rang out distinctly above the man's exclamation. Duncombe
was already stepping over the window-sill when he felt a clutch like
iron upon his shoulder. He looked round in amazement. Andrew's face was
transformed. He was struggling for words.

"Her voice!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Am I dreaming, George? It was her
voice!"

CHAPTER XIV

LAUGHTER OF WOMEN

The door of the omnibus was opened as Duncombe stepped over the low wall
into the road. A tall man in a long light Inverness descended.

"Hullo, Duncombe!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand; "I was coming in
to see you for a moment."

"Good man!" Duncombe answered. "Bring your friends, won't you?"

He held open the gate hospitably, but Lord Runton shook his head.

"I only wanted a word with you," he said. "We're all starving, and if
you don't mind we'll get on as quickly as we can. About to-morrow. You
shoot with us, of course?"

"Delighted!" Duncombe answered.

"Cresswell met me at the station," Lord Runton continued. "I'd drawn out
a plan for the shoot, but it seems that Cresswell--old fool--hasn't got
his harvest in from the two fields by Ketton's Gorse. What I wanted to
ask you was if we might take your turnips up from Mile's bottom to the
north end of the