The moon had now completely risen, and as they bore round to the right again to meet the road to Ville Bagot, the car suddenly slowed down. It stopped, and the engine became silent. “Is anything the matter?” Cora inquired anxiously. No sound of any sort was audible save, in the far distance, the sea washing up the beach. “Nothing is the matter, my own darling,” Johnson murmured passionately, “but I felt that on a night like this----” And so, in the solitude of that perfect night, they renewed their vows once more. Locked in her lover’s arms, Cora felt supremely happy. She felt his burning kisses on her lips and face and neck, on her eyes and on her hair. “Darling,” she whispered back in an ecstacy at last. “I never knew before that any one could be so happy! Oh, how I hope you will never tire of me, that we shall live in this state of bliss right through to the end of our lives! I feel that until now my life has been so aimless. I have led such a butterfly existence. But it will be different in the future, my darlingest--oh, so completely different. I mean to do all in my power to make you the happiest man on earth, and then....” Thus she talked, her words of love and passion flowing like a torrent from her lips. For the time all else but their great love was forgotten. Even her fondness for Yootha had passed completely from her mind. When Johnson had driven her back to the house where she was still on a visit to her friends, and had returned to the Brees Hotel, he found several letters awaiting him which had arrived during the day. One, he saw, was from Preston, and bore the Dieppe postmark. The other came from England, and the handwriting was Blenkiron’s. CHAPTER XXVII. AGAINST THE WIND. George Blenkiron wrote in his usual breezy style, and much of the news in his letter interested Johnson greatly, in view of what Hopford and Preston had told him, also in view of his engagement to Cora Hartsilver. It was a long letter, and Blenkiron mentioned among other items of news that, happening to be in the neighborhood of Uckfield, some days before, curiosity had prompted him to seek out Stapleton’s cottage, The Nest, which he knew to be in the vicinity. “He calls it a ‘cottage,’” he wrote, “but in reality it is a good-sized house, approached by a carriage drive about half-a-mile long, and flanked on three sides by woods with thick undergrowth. The house itself lies in a hollow, and you come upon it unexpectedly. My intention was only to have a look at the place, but when I arrived at it so suddenly I concluded that most likely somebody had seen me approaching, so I went up and rang the bell, meaning to inquire if Stapleton were at home.