Jocelyn!" Sir Charles' loud, hearty voice at
the same moment interrupted. "There was a look about him I didn't like
from the beginning."

"Perhaps he needs only a little toning down to be fit," put in Captain
Forsythe, as he and the others drew near. "A few seasons with the
hounds, or--"

"Chasing some poor little fox!" said the girl with light scorn.

"One might be doing something worse!"

"One might!" Her accents were dubious.

"You don't believe in the chase, or the hunt? Allow me to differ; people
always must hunt _something_, don't you know; primeval instinct! Used to
hunt one another," he laughed. "Sometimes do now. Fox is only a
substitute for the joys of the man-hunt; sort of sop to Cerberus, as it
were. Eh, Ronsdale?"

But the nobleman did not answer; his face looked drawn and gray; with
one hand he seemed almost clinging to his saddle. John Steele's back was
turned; he was bending over the girth of his saddle and his features
could not be seen, but the hand, so firm and assured a moment before,
seemed a little uncertain as it made pretext to readjust a fastening or
buckle.

"Why, man, you look ill!" Captain Forsythe, turning to Lord Ronsdale,
exclaimed suddenly.

"It's--nothing--much--" With vacant expression the nobleman regarded the
speaker; then lifted his hand and pressed it an instant to his breast.
"Heart," he murmured mechanically. "Beastly bad heart, you know, and
sometimes a little thing--slight shock--Miss Wray's danger--"

"Take some of this!" The captain, with solicitude, pressed a flask on
him; the nobleman drank deeply. "There; that'll pick you up."

"Beastly foolish!" A color sprang to Lord Ronsdale's face; he held
himself more erect.

"Not at all!" Sir Charles interposed. "A man can't help a bad liver or a
bad heart. One of those inscrutable visitations of Providence! But shall
we go on? You're sure you're quite yourself?"

"Quite!" The nobleman's tone was even harder and more metallic than
usual; his thin lips compressed to a tight line; his eyes that looked
out to a great distance were bright and glistening.

"Are you ready, Mr. Steele?" Jocelyn Wray waited a moment as the others
started, looked down at that gentleman. Her voice was gracious; its soft
accents seemed to say: "You may ride with me; it is your reward!"

For one restored so quickly to favor, with a felicitous prospect of gay
words and bright glances, John Steele seemed singularly dull and
apathetic. He exhibited