t.
Baron did not tell them that a coach from the View hotel had also gone
there earlier, and that Mark Telford and Mildred Margrave with her friends
were with it. There was no particular reason why he should.

Mark Telford had gone because he hoped to see Mrs. Detlor without (if he
should think it best) being seen by her. Mildred Margrave sat in the seat
behind him--he was on the box seat--and so far gained the confidence of
the driver as to induce him to resign the reins into his hands. There was
nothing in the way of horses unfamiliar to Telford. As a child he had
ridden like a circus rider and with the fearlessness of an Arab; and his
skill had increased with years. This six in hand was, as he said, "nuts to
Jacko." Mildred was delighted. From the first moment she had seen this man
she had been attracted to him, but in a fashion as to gray headed Mr.
Margrave, who sang her praises to everybody--not infrequently to the wide
open ears of Baron. At last she hinted very faintly to the military
officer who sat on the box seat that she envied him, and he gave her his
place. Mark Telford would hardly have driven so coolly that afternoon if
he had known that his own child was beside him. He told her, however,
amusing stories as they went along. Once or twice he turned to look at
her. Something familiar in her laugh caught his attention. He could not
trace it. He could not tell that it was like a faint echo of his own.

When they reached the park where the old abbey was, Telford detached
himself from the rest of the party and wandered alone through the paths
with their many beautiful surprises of water and wood, pretty grottoes,
rustic bridges and incomparable turf. He followed the windings of a
stream, till, suddenly, he came out into a straight open valley, at the
end of which were the massive ruins of the old abbey, with its stern
Norman tower. He came on slowly thinking how strange it was that he, who
had spent years in the remotest corners of the world, having for his
companions men adventurous as himself, and barbarous tribes, should be
here. His life, since the day he left his home in the south, had been
sometimes as useless as creditable. However, he was not of such stuff as
to spend an hour in useless remorse. He had made his bed, and he had lain
on it without grumbling, but he was a man who counted his life
backward--he had no hope for the future. The thought of what he might have
been came on him here in spite of h