to some sympathy. He reached the Gardens at
last, but when he had turned in at the little postern door near the
'King's Arms,' he could not prevail upon himself to open the
letter--he tore it half open and put it back irresolutely; he must
find a seat and sit down. He struck up the hill, with the wind in his
teeth now, until he came to the Round Pond, where there was quite a
miniature sea breaking on the southwestern rim of the basin; a small
boy was watching a solitary ship labouring far out in the centre, and
Mark stood and watched it too, mechanically, till he turned away at
last with a nervous start of impatience. Once he had sailed ships on
those waters; what would he not give if those days could come back to
him again, or if even he could go back these past few months to the
time when his conscience was clear and he feared no man! But the past
was irrevocable; he had been guilty of this reckless, foolish fraud,
and now the consequences were upon him! He walked restlessly on under
the bare tossing branches, looking through the black trunks and across
the paths glimmering white in the blue-grey distance for a seat where
he might be safe from interruption, until at last he discovered a
clumsy wooden bench, scored and slashed with the sand-ingrained
initials of a quarter of a century's idleness, a seat of the old
uncomfortable pattern gradually dying out from the walks. He could
wait no longer, and was hurrying forward to secure it, when he was
hailed by some one approaching by one of the Bayswater paths, and
found that he had been recognised by Harold Caffyn.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK KNOWS THE WORST.

To avoid Caffyn was out of the question, and so Mark waited for him
with as much self-control as he could muster, as he strolled leisurely
up. Caffyn's quick eye saw at once that something unusual had
happened, and he resolved to find out what that was before they
parted. 'Thought it must be you,' he began; 'so you've come out here
to meditate on your coming happiness, have you? Come along and pour
out some of your raptures, it will do you good; and you don't know
what a listener I can be.'

'Not now,' said Mark uneasily; 'I--I think I would rather be alone.'

'Nonsense!' said Caffyn briskly; 'you don't really mean that, I know.
Why, I'm going away to-morrow to the lakes. I must have a little talk
with you before I go.'

'What are you going there for?' said Mark, without much show of
interest.

'My healt