into his face, "Sir
Malcolm, I am glad to see you. Do I look downcast?"

"As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart," I responded,
guessing the cause of Sir John's despondency.

"I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made me
downcast," he replied.

"So you really did miss her?" I queried. "She was detained at Haddon Hall,
Sir John, to bid me farewell."

"I do not understand--" began Sir John, growing cold in his bearing.

"I understand quite well," I answered. "Dorothy told me all to-day. You
need keep nothing from me. The golden heart brought her into trouble, and
made mischief for me of which I cannot see the end. I will tell you the
story while we ride. I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, if
possible, sail for France. This fork in the road has brought me to a
standstill, and my horse refuses to decide which route we shall take.
Perhaps you will direct us."

"Gladly. The road to the southwest--the one I shall take--is the most
direct route to Chester. But tell me, how comes it that you are leaving
Haddon Hall? I thought you had gone there to marry-" He stopped speaking,
and a smile stole into his eyes.

"Let us ride forward together, and I will tell you about it," said I.

While we travelled I told Sir John the circumstances of my departure from
Haddon Hall, concealing nothing save that which touched Madge Stanley. I
then spoke of my dangerous position in England, and told him of my great
desire to reach my mother's people in France.

"You will find difficulty and danger in escaping to France at this time,"
said Sir John, "the guard at the ports is very strong and strict, and your
greatest risk will be at the moment when you try to embark without a
passport."

"That is true," I responded; "but I know of nothing else that I can do."

"Come with me to Rutland Castle," said Sir John. "You may there find
refuge until such time as you can go to France. I will gladly furnish you
money which you may repay at your pleasure, and I may soon be able to
procure a passport for you."

I thanked him, but said I did not see my way clear to accept his kind
offer.

"You are unknown in the neighborhood of Rutland," he continued, "and you
may easily remain incognito." Although his offer was greatly to my liking,
I suggested several objections, chief among which was the distaste Lord
Rutland might feel toward one of my name. I would not, of course, consent
that my identity shou