He rises wearily and goes out. The back of the stand is more or less crowded by the hangers-on and scum of every race-course. How he hates and loathes the sight of them now; how their rough, coarse, pleasure-seeking faces bring up to his mind, with haunting horror, the great loss which he has sustained! He is staying near the race-course, and has not far to go, so he hurries through the crowd and makes straight for The Laurels, which is the name of the place. He reaches it, and tries the front door. It is locked; of course no one is expected back yet. He knows of a side-entrance though through the smoking-room. Ten to one the careful servants have forgotten it. He walks round and tries it. Yes, true enough, they have. Very quietly Sir Reginald slips in. In another moment he is upstairs and in his bedroom. He turns the key in the door, and goes over to the writing table. His face is still deadly pale, and he walks like one who has had too much to drink. He sits at the table and scrawls a few hurried lines. They are as follows:— “Flora dear, forgive me. I’ve been a brute and an idiot. Would to God I had taken your advice! But it’s too late now. You’ll pay the ring for me, dear. Let them know it was my last wish. If I lived we should be beggars, and I can’t condemn you and the ‘little one’ to that. But at my death you’ll get all that money that is to come to you and the child. Good-bye, dear old girl. You’ve been good and kind to me. This is about all Reggie can do to show you he is grateful. Good-bye. Forgive.” She has been looking for him a long time, and so has Hector D’Estrange, but there is no sign of Sir Reginald Desmond anywhere. At last she can stand it no longer. “I must go back to The Laurels,” she says; “perhaps he is there.” Estcourt, who is standing by her, offers to accompany her, and thither they proceed in silence. Of course when they reach the house no one has seen him. The servants assure her ladyship that Sir Reginald has not returned; they must have seen him if he had. They forget to add that the greater number of them have been perched on the high wall surrounding The Laurels, during the greater part of the day, watching the races. “I’ll just run up to the bedroom and have a look,” says Flora to Estcourt. “I won’t be a minute.” He waits below, but almost directly hears his name called,— “Estcourt, come here.” He races up the stairs. He finds her standing outside the door of a bedroom. “I can’t get in,” she says hurriedly. “I’ve called, but there is no reply. Oh, Estcourt! do you think he is in there?” He makes no reply, but runs downstairs. In a few minutes he is back with a hatchet. Curious servants are following him. “Stand back,” he says to Flora. She obeys, and the young man brings the hatchet with tremendous force against the lock. Three, four, five strokes, and he has broken it to shivers. Then he opens the door.