At
a late, or rather, early, hour he pushed back his chair, richer by a few
coins that jingled in his pocket, and, yawning, walked out. Summoning a
cab, he got in, but as he found himself rattling homeward to the
chambers he had taken in a fashionable part of town, he was aware that
any emotions of annoyance and discontent experienced earlier that night,
had suffered no abatement.

"Tasmania!" The horse's hoofs beat time to vague desultory thoughts; he
stared out, perhaps, in fancy, at southern seas, looked up at stars more
lustrous than those that hung over him now. Then the divers clusters of
points, glowing, insistent, swam around, and he fell into a half doze,
from which he was awakened by the abrupt stopping of the cab. Having
paid the man he went up to his rooms. On the table in an inner
apartment, his study, something bright, white, met his gaze: a note in
Jocelyn Wray's handwriting! Quickly he reached for it and tore it open.

"A party of us ride in the park to-morrow morning. Will you join us?"

That was all; brief and to the point; Lord Ronsdale frowned.

"A party!" That would include John Steele perhaps. Once before on a
morning, the girl's fair face and dancing eyes had wooed Steele away
from his desk, or the court, to the park.

Should he go? The note slipped from his fingers to the carpet; he
permitted it to lie there; the importance to himself and others of his
decision he little realized. Could he have foreseen all that was
involved by his going, or staying away, he would not so carelessly have
thrown off his clothes and retired, dismissing the matter until the
morrow, or rather, until he should chance to waken.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V

IN THE PARK

Close at hand, the trees in Hyde Park seemed to droop their branches, as
if in sympathy with the gray aspect of the day, while afar, across the
green, the sylvan guardians of the place had either receded altogether
in the gray haze or stood forth like shadowy ghosts. In the foreground,
not far from the main entrance, a number of sheep and their young
nibbled contentedly the wet and delectable grass, and as some bright
gown paused or whisked past, the juxtaposition of fine raiment and young
lamb suggested soft, shifting Bouchers or other dainty French pastorals
in paint. The air had a tang; the dampness enhanced the perfumes, made
them fuller and sweeter, and a joyous sort of melancholy seemed to hold
a springti