Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately pack a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his wife. The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall, the drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At last he discovered her in the garden--a most sequestered spot, some distance from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded by terraces and broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an island in one of the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump a hammock, in the hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette, and a tiny “sleeve” dog. “My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings you back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off anyone’s head?” “No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.” “From the duke?”--struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant. “No, I’ve not heard from him”--and he put his hand in his pocket and drew out the letter. Lady Mulgrave’s expression changed, as she said, “I really do think there ought to be a law against all the men going out together. Half should remain to amuse _us_. It is ghastly dull. Tito and Griselda are going to walk with the guns this afternoon, but I hate that sort of thing. Lady Madge and the marchioness, and a whole pack have driven to see a ruin. They couldn’t see a more splendid ruin than Lady Madge herself! Some are playing croquet; some are asleep, and I was nearly off. Oh, you abominable little dog!” suddenly addressing the mite, who had been chewing her book. “Oh, you little horror!”--and she gave it several hard cuffs. “Look here, I want you to read this, Charlotte. I’ve had a most startling piece of news. I am going to Ireland to-night.” “Ireland?”--carelessly taking the letter. “Ireland, of all places! But _why_? It’s not even the horse-show week, and that’s its only inducement!” “You will see the why, when you read what Usher has to say.” Lady Mulgrave glanced over the pages with a puckered, frowning face. “My dear, what nonsense!” she exclaimed at last. “Surely you don’t believe such utter rubbish. A common country girl your daughter?”--and with an impatient jerk she threw away the cigarette which had been suspended in her fingers. “I cannot tell you until I’ve seen her. Seeing will be believing, or disbelieving.” “My dear man, I can tell you one thing. You will have your journey for nothing.” “I sincerely hope not,” he answered gravely. “If there is anything in it, it will really be awful, Owen. No, I’m not meaning anything nasty! Awful for the girl, and also for us. I expect she wears no stockings, and says ‘bedad’ and ‘begorra.’” “These matters can easily be remedied. You will be good to her, won’t you, Lottie?”