man fallen into a trance. Then floating up
through the darkness came the echo of a laugh. George started. "The
d----d parson!" he muttered, and turned up the stairs again; but now he
moved like a man with a purpose, and held his candle high so that the
light fell far out into the darkness. He went beyond his own room, and
stood still again. The light of the candle showed the blood flushing his
forehead, beating and pulsing in the veins at the side of his temples;
showed, too, his lips quivering, his shaking hand. He stretched out that
hand and touched the handle of a door, then stood again like a man of
stone, listening for the laugh. He raised the candle, and it shone into
every nook; his throat clicked, as though he found it hard to swallow....

It was at Barnard Scrolls, the next station to Worsted Skeynes, on the
following afternoon, that a young man entered a first-class compartment
of the 3.10 train to town. The young man wore a Newmarket coat, natty
white gloves, and carried an eyeglass. His face was well coloured, his
chestnut moustache well brushed, and his blue eyes with their loving
expression seemed to say, "Look at me--come, look at me--can anyone be
better fed?" His valise and hat-box, of the best leather, bore the
inscription, "E. Maydew, 8th Lancers."

There was a lady leaning back in a corner, wrapped to the chin in a fur
garment, and the young man, encountering through his eyeglass her cool,
ironical glance, dropped it and held out his hand.

"Ah, Mrs. Bellew, great pleasure t'see you again so soon. You goin' up
to town? Jolly dance last night, wasn't it? Dear old sort, the Squire,
and Mrs. Pendyce such an awf'ly nice woman."

Mrs. Bellew took his hand, and leaned back again in her corner. She was
rather paler than usual, but it became her, and Captain Maydew thought he
had never seen so charming a creature.

"Got a week's leave, thank goodness. Most awf'ly slow time of year.
Cubbin's pretty well over, an' we don't open till the first."

He turned to the window. There in the sunlight the hedgerows ran golden
and brown away from the clouds of trailing train smoke. Young Maydew
shook his head at their beauty.

"The country's still very blind," he said. "Awful pity you've given up
your huntin'."

Mrs. Bellew did not trouble to answer, and it was just that certainty
over herself, the cool assurance of a woman who has known the world, her
calm, almost negligent eyes, that fascinate