Even at that wild pace, earth and sea flying past him like the shadows of a magic lantern, Churchill Penwyn had time for thought. He surveyed his life, and wondered what he might have made of it had he been wiser. Yes, for the crime by which he had leaped at once into possession of his heart’s desires seemed to him now an act of folly; like one of those moves at chess which, lightly considered, point the way to speedy triumph, and whereby the rash player wrecks his game. He had won wife, fortune, position; and lo! in little more than two years, the knowledge of his crime had slain that idolized wife, and an undreamed-of claimant had arisen to dispute his fortune. The things he had grasped at were shadows, and like shadows had departed. ‘After all,’ he said to himself, summing up the experience of his days, ‘a man has but one power over his destiny—power to make an end of the struggle at his own time.’ He had ridden within a few yards of the cliff. His horse turned, and pulled landwards desperately, scenting danger. ‘Very well, Tarpan, we’ll have another stretch upon the turf.’ Another gallop, wilder than the last, across the undulating moor, a sudden turn seaward again, a plunge of the spurs deep into the quivering sides, and Tarpan is thundering over the turf like a mad thing, heedless where he goes, unconscious of the precipice before him, the rough rock-bound shore below, the wild breath of the air that meets his own panting breath, and almost strangles him. * * * * * Sir Nugent Bellingham waited dinner for his son-in-law, sorely indifferent whether he eat or fasted, but making a feeble show of customary hours, and household observances. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and no sign of Churchill Penwyn. Sir Nugent went up to Viola’s room. It was empty, but he found his daughter in the room which had so lately been tenanted by the dead, found her weeping upon the pillow where that placid face had lain. ‘My dear, it is so wrong of you to give way like this.’ A stifled sob, and a kiss upon the father’s trembling lips. ‘Dear papa, you can never know how I loved her.’ ‘Every one loved her, my dear. Do you think I do not feel her loss? I have seen so little of her since her marriage. If I had but known! I’m afraid I’ve been a bad father.’ ‘No, no, dear. You were always kind, and she loved you dearly. She liked to think that you were happy among pleasant people. She never had a selfish thought.’ ‘I know it, Viola. And she was happy with her husband. You are quite sure of that?’ ‘I never saw two people so utterly united, so happy in each other’s devotion.’ ‘And yet Churchill takes his loss very quietly.’ ‘His grief is all the deeper for being undemonstrative.’ ‘Well, I suppose so,’ sighed Sir Nugent. ‘But I should have expected to see him more cut up. Oh, by the way, I came to you to ask about him. Have you any idea where he has gone? He may have told you?’