hite. Moving into
the bedroom beyond, she took from a wardrobe of old French workmanship a
rose dressing-gown; this, and a pair of slippers of like color she
brought out and placed near the fire. As she did so, she started,
straightened suddenly; then her expression changed; the voice of Lord
Ronsdale without was followed by that of Jocelyn Wray.

"Never fear! They'll get the fellow yet," my lord had said.

Jocelyn answered mechanically; the door opened; the maid caught a
glimpse of Ronsdale's face, of the cold eyes that looked the least bit
annoyed.

"Although it was most bungling on their part to have permitted him to
get away!" he went on. "I hope, however, this little unexpected episode
won't disturb your rest." An instant the steely eyes seemed to
contemplate her closer. "Many going away to-morrow?" he asked, as if to
divert her thoughts from the exciting experience of the evening before
leaving her.

"Only Captain Forsythe and--Mr. Steele."

Did he notice the slightest hesitation, on her part, before speaking the
last name? My lord's eyes fell; an odd expression appeared on his face.
He murmured a few last perfunctory words; then--"They'll get him yet. He
can't get away," he repeated. The words had a singular, a sibilant
sound; he bowed deferentially and strode off, not toward his own
chamber, however, but toward the great stairway leading down to the
first story.

As the door closed behind her young mistress, the maid came quickly
forward. "Did you learn anything more, Miss Jocelyn, if I may be so bold
as to ask, from the police agent? Who the criminal was, or--"

"The police agent only said he was an ex-convict, no ordinary one, who
had escaped from London and was making for the sea. They got word he was
at the village and followed him there but he managed to elude them and
they traced him to Strathorn House park, where he had taken refuge. The
police did not acquaint Sir Charles, Lord Ronsdale or any one with their
purpose, thinking not to alarm us needlessly beforehand. And--I believe
that is all."

A moment the woman waited. "I--shall I--"

The girl looked before her; tiny flames from the grate heightened the
sheen on her gown; they threw passing lights on the somewhat tired,
proud face. "I shall not need you, Dobson," she said. "You may go. A
moment." The woman, who had half-turned, waited; Jocelyn's glance had
lowered to the fire; in its reflection her slim, delicate fingers were
rosy. She uncla