What has happened? What has become of him?"

"I followed you down the slope. I came out to find you, fearing you
had met with some accident on the road. Just as I was approaching and
about to speak, you dashed past me, and then----"

"What then?" interpolates Carol impatiently.

"I suppose you fainted, for I saw you roll from your saddle as the
horse drew up at the sound of my voice."

"You ought not to have come," says Carol, somewhat harshly, but
Eleanor's blinded senses, dulled under the influence of her love, heed
not his ill-temper.

He rises surlily, brushing some blood off his forehead.

He mounts Eleanor upon her horse without a word.

"Why are you so late?" she asks.

"I was attacked on the road by a madman, and half killed," he replies
between his teeth.

"Oh, Carol!" she exclaims, her face blanching, "how terrible!"

"Yes, it was rather bad."

Then he describes the scene graphically as they ride on side by side,
till Eleanor is shivering with horror.

"Strangely enough," he says, "the only thing I lost in the struggle was
that cat's-eye ring you gave me. I think the man imagined it was
something of value."

"Is that so?" replies Eleanor slowly, staring before her into the
moonlight. "I would rather anything had gone but that."

"I am sorry, too; I shall miss it."

There is a pause.

"You are ill, exhausted!" murmurs Eleanor sympathetically.

"Oh, no; don't worry. But I wish I knew who the devil that man was."

* * * * *

"Captain Stevenson wants to give me an Irish terrier," says Carol, a
few mornings later. "I think it will be well to have a dog about the
place, especially after what happened the other night."

"Yes, indeed; I should accept it by all means."

"I will ride over and see him early, and get back by daylight."

Eleanor picks up a book, leaning back wearily. She is growing
accustomed to his absences. The Eleanor who was so difficult to please
with Philip Roche will stand anything from Carol Quinton.

Her one idea is to yield to his every whim, regard his every wish. To
live only to please.

He bends over her. She is reading Shakespeare for the first time.

"What is honour?--a word," she quotes aloud. "What is that word,
honour?--air."

He kisses the curling hair on her forehead.

"Good-bye, my love. You shall not be alarmed this time."

"Come back soon, Carol."

She does not rise to kiss her hand or wave as he rides away