eed, to consider whether he trusts them or no! And
who comes worst off? Not the Englishman--if, at least, we are to believe
the French novel on the French <i>menage!</i>

He paced thus up and down for an hour, defying his unseen critics--his
mother--his own heart.

* * * * *

Then he went to bed and slept a little. But with the post next morning
there was no letter from Kitty. There might be a hundred explanations of
that. Yet he felt a sudden need of caution.

"Her ladyship comes up this morning by train," he said to Wilson, as
though reading from a note. "There seems to have been a mishap."

Then he took a hansom and drove to the Alcots.

"Is Mrs. Alcot at home?" he asked the butler. "Can I have an answer to
this note?"

"Mrs. Alcot has been in her room since yesterday morning, sir. She was
taken ill just before the coach was coming round, and the horses had to
be sent back. But the doctor last night hoped it would be nothing
serious."

Ashe turned and went home. Then Kitty was not with Madeleine Alcot--not
on the coach! Where was she, and with whom?

He shut himself into his library and fell to wondering, in bewilderment,
what he had better do. A tide of rage and agony was mounting within him.
How to master it--and keep his brain clear!

He was sitting in front of his writing-table staring at the floor, his
hands hanging before him, when the door opened and shut. He turned.
There, with her back to the door, stood Kitty. Her aspect startled him
to his feet. She looked at him, trembling--her little face haggard and
white, with a touch of something in it which had blurred its youth.

"William!" She put both her hands to her breast, as though to support
herself. Then she flew forward. "William! I have done nothing
wrong--nothing--nothing! William--look at me!"

He sternly put out his hand, protecting himself.

"Where have you been?" he said, in a low voice--"and with whom?"

Kitty fell into a chair and burst into wild tears.

XIII

There was silence for a few moments except for Kitty's crying. Ashe
still stood beside his writing-table, his hand resting upon it, his eyes
on Kitty. Once or twice he began to speak, and stopped. At last he said,
with obvious difficulty:

"It's cruel to keep me waiting, Kitty."

"I sent you a telegram first thing this morning." The voice was choked
and passionate.

"I never got it."

"Horrid little fiend!" cried Kitty, sitting u