Jeffray and the painter looked hard into each other’s eyes when they had read the confession through. There was a slight flush as of triumph on Jeffray’s face, as he held out his hand exultantly to Wilson. “We go to Lewes after all,” he said. “Sir!” “I shall send a letter back by the trooper to Cornet Jellicoe, thanking him, and saying that I have gone to Lewes on legal business. We will cross the water to-morrow, God helping us!” Wilson gave his friend a keen look, and tapped the letter with his finger. “There is still a mystery here, sir,” he said. “What does it matter, Dick—what does it matter?” “If this be true—” “True! Why, damn it, Dick, I have always believed it true. Do you think that girl was born in a hovel?” XLV The turret clock was striking seven when the coach swung out of the stable-yard, and, turning on the gravel-drive before the house, drew up with rattling harness before the porch. The luggage lay piled upon the roof, a loaded blunderbuss hanging in the straps before the back seat. Both the coachman and the serving-man beside him were armed. Peter Gladden, cloaked, and with a couple of pistols swinging in his tail-pockets, stood with his hand on the handle of the door. Jeffray, his sword under his left arm, handed Bess down the steps to the coach. Dick Wilson followed them, striving not to look lugubrious, his blue eyes set staringly in his sun-tanned face. Bess tripped into the coach; Jeffray halted with one foot on the step, and held out his hand to his friend with a smile. “Good-bye, Dick,” he said, “and God bless you.” Wilson’s powerful fist closed upon Jeffray’s brown and sinewy fingers. “God go with you, too, sir,” he retorted, a little thickly. “I’ll see to your business. The fellow in Lincoln’s Inn shall have your letter, and we’ll forward all news between us to France.” Jeffray gave a last grip to the painter’s hand, and sprang into the coach. “There is the letter to my bankers, Dick,” he said, when Gladden had closed the door, “deliver it in person. A portion of it concerns yourself.” “Concerns me, sir?” “Yes, Dick—good-bye—good-bye.” “God go with you both, sir, and may you be happy!” Peter Gladden climbed to the back seat. The whip cracked, the horses strained at the traces, the heavy wheels ground into the gravel. The great coach rolled away on its high springs, leaving the old house bowered up amid its trees, moated by shrubs and the thousand faces of its flowers. Dick Wilson ran to the end of the terrace, flapping a red-cotton handkerchief. Jeffray, leaning out of the window, waved to him in turn, Bess looking over her lover’s shoulder. Wilson was still standing there when a cedar hid the gardens and terrace-way from sight. Gable and chimney-stack and lozenged-casement sank away behind the trees; only a faint trail of blue smoke in the heavens showed where the old house stood.