rought his bride; but such a coincidence
seemed, at the least, highly improbable. There was no occasion for him to
remain in doubt very long, however. At the Grange he must needs be able
to obtain more definite information.

CHAPTER XVI.

FACE TO FACE.

Gilbert Fenton left the homely little post-office and turned into the
lane leading to Golder's-green--a way which may have been pleasant enough
in summer, but had no especial charm at this time. The level expanse of
bare ploughed fields on each side of the narrow road had a dreary look;
the hedges were low and thin; a tall elm, with all its lower limbs
mercilessly shorn, uplifted its topmost branches to the dull gray sky,
here and there, like some transformed prophetess raising her gaunt arms
in appeal or malediction; an occasional five-barred gate marked the
entrance to some by-road to the farm; on one side of the way a deep
black-looking ditch lay under the scanty shelter of the low hedge, and
hinted at possible water rats to the traveller from cities who might
happen to entertain a fastidious aversion to such small deer.

The mile seemed a very long one to Gilbert Fenton. Since his knowledge of
Sir David Forster's ownership of the house to which he was going, his
impatience was redoubled. He had a feverish eagerness to come at the
bottom of this mystery. That Sir David had lied to him, he had very
little doubt. Whoever this Mr. Holbrook was, it was more likely that he
should have escaped the notice of Lidford people as a guest at Heatherly
than under any other circumstances. At Heatherly it was such a common
thing for strangers to come and go, that even the rustic gossips had left
off taking much interest in the movements of the Baronet or his guests.
There was one thought that flashed suddenly into Gilbert's mind during
that gloomy walk under the lowering gray sky.

If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster's, how
did it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognize his name? The
intimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old standing, that it
seemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David's could be
completely unknown to the other. Were they all united in treachery
against him? Had his chosen friend--the man he loved so well--been able
to enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge? No, he told
himself, that was not possible. Sir David Forster might be the falsest,
most unprincipled of mankind; but he