ing to the protective and
paternal side of him than she was that morning; as if she only wanted
what her father and her home could not give her--only wanted to be a sort
of daughter to him!

She went away demurely, as she had come, refusing to stay to lunch,
manifestly avoiding Sylvia. Only then he realized that she must have
taken alarm from the look of strain on his face, been afraid that he
would send her away; only then perceived that, with her appeal to his
protection, she had been binding him closer, making it harder for him to
break away and hurt her. And the fevered aching began again--worse than
ever--the moment he lost sight of her. And more than ever he felt in the
grip of something beyond his power to fight against; something that,
however he swerved, and backed, and broke away, would close in on him,
find means to bind him again hand and foot.

In the afternoon Dromore's confidential man brought him a note. The
fellow, with his cast-down eyes, and his well-parted hair, seemed to
Lennan to be saying: "Yes, sir--it is quite natural that you should take
the note out of eyeshot, sir--BUT I KNOW; fortunately, there is no
necessity for alarm--I am strictly confidential."

And this was what the note contained:

"You promised to ride with me once--you DID promise, and you never have.
Do please ride with me to-morrow; then you will get what you want for the
statuette instead of being so cross with it. You can have Dad's
horse--he has gone to Newmarket again, and I'm so lonely.
Please--to-morrow, at half-past two--starting from here.--NELL."

To hesitate in view of those confidential eyes was not possible; it must
be 'Yes' or 'No'; and if 'No,' it would only mean that she would come in
the morning instead. So he said:

"Just say 'All right!'"

"Very good, sir." Then from the door: "Mr. Dromore will be away till
Saturday, sir."

Now, why had the fellow said that? Curious how this desperate secret
feeling of his own made him see sinister meaning in this servant, in
Oliver's visit of last night--in everything. It was vile--this
suspiciousness! He could feel, almost see, himself deteriorating
already, with this furtive feeling in his soul. It would soon be written
on his face! But what was the use of troubling? What would come,
would--one way or the other.

And suddenly he remembered with a shock that it was the first of
November--Sylvia's birthday! He had never before forgotten it. In the
distu