It was rather remarkable that no one seemed disposed to question _him_ much about last night's adventure. Possibly, Lady Mildred knew something of the truth--though not all--and had taken Max into confidence; for her maid might have been seen in close colloquy with one of the keepers, early in the morning; and it is probable that model of austere and dignified propriety would not so far have derogated without good cause. However this might be, her manner towards Alan Wyverne was kind and affectionate to a degree; when she spoke to Lord Clydesdale, a very close observer might have detected a certain coldness in the perfect courtesy. "My lady" was only a woman, after all; and the instincts of her sex, though tamed and trained, would assert themselves sometimes. She looked at the Earl as he sat there swelling with sulky self-importance; ruddy, certainly--perhaps unpleasantly so--but not "of a cheerful countenance;" then she looked across at Wyverne, just as a bright, grateful smile lighted up all his wan face, and thanked Helen for some trifling act of kindness. The contrast was too much for Lady Mildred; for once, the cold diplomatist yielded to a real frank impulse and forgot her cunning. When she rose with the others, she crossed over to where Alan sat, and leant over him, on pretence of settling his sling, till her lips touched his hair. Even Helen, who was so near, did not catch the whisper-- "Ah, so many thanks! Who can help loving you--always braver and better than your word?" Neither ever alluded to the events of that night again, but they understood each other perfectly; and to the end of his days, Wyverne considered his services over-paid. In truth, it was no mean triumph to have made "my lady," for more than a hundred seconds, thoroughly honest and sincere. That day brought a large influx of fresh guests to Dene; but only four deserve special mention, and perhaps these might be reduced to three.