azed, blinking his lashless lids,
at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently
arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and
hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and
reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God!
And how weakly ready he was to grasp at the olive branch held out to him
across a continent!

He took the letter; he made a step with it towards the door, seeking
solitude; then, as an afterthought, he looked at the superscription.
It was addressed to the same person, Miss Chyne, but in a different
handwriting--the handwriting of a man well educated but little used to
wielding the pen.

"The other," mumbled Sir John. "The other man, by God!"

And, with a smile that sat singularly on his withered face, he took up
a newspaper and went towards the fireplace, where he sat stiffly in an
armchair, taking an enormous interest in the morning's news. He read a
single piece of news three times over, and a fourth time in a whisper,
so as to rivet his attention upon it. He would not admit that he was
worsted--would not humble his pride even before the ornaments on the
mantelpiece.

Before Millicent came down, looking very fresh and pretty in her tweed
dress, the butler had sorted the letters. There were only two upon her
plate--the twin envelopes addressed by different hands. Sir John was
talking with a certain laboured lightness to Lady Cantourne, when that
lady's niece came into the room. He was watching keenly. There was a
certain amount of interest in the question of those two envelopes, as
to which she would open first. She looked at each in turn, glanced
furtively towards Sir John, made a suitable reply to some remark
addressed to her by the baron, and tore open Jack's envelope. There was
a gravity--a concentrated gravity--about her lips as she unfolded
the thin paper; and Sir John, who knew the world and the little
all-important trifles thereof, gave an impatient sigh. It is the little
trifle that betrays the man, and not the larger issues of life in which
we usually follow precedent. It was that passing gravity (of the lips
only) that told Sir John more about Millicent Chyne than she herself
knew, and what he had learnt did not seem to be to his liking.

There is nothing so disquieting as the unknown motive, which disquietude
was Sir John's soon after breakfast. The other men dispersed to put on
gaiters and