On receiving this confirmation of her worst, nay, more than her worst, fears, Alice’s first impulse was to give way to a flood of tears--an impulse so strong that, unable entirely to check it, the sob which Lord Alfred had partially overheard was the result. The story chimed in with her jealous suspicions so exactly, that it never for a moment occurred to her to question the truth of it; on the contrary, it would have required the clearest evidence of its falsehood to make her disbelieve it. Having by a great effort repressed her tears, her next impulse was to prevent any one, especially Lord Alfred, from perceiving how deeply his intelligence had affected her. Accordingly she turned to him, and replied in as careless a tone as she could summon-- “A very pretty bit of scandal, truly; and, as you say, worth as much, or as little rather, as scandal usually is; however, the tale has served to amuse me and put me in a good humour; so, as you seem to have set your heart upon another dance, I suppose I must exercise my woman’s privilege in your favour, and change my mind. They are going to waltz--shall we begin?” Surprised and delighted at the success of his experiment, and almost inclined to attribute supernatural wisdom to Horace D’Almayne, Lord Alfred hastily offered his arm to his enslaver, and in another minute they were whirling round the room in all the giddy excitement of a rapid waltz. While the dance was still proceeding, a tall, striking-looking man entered the room, and shading his eyes from the unaccustomed brilliancy of the lights, carefully scrutinised the dancers, until his glance fell upon the figures of Alice and Lord Alfred, when a shade came over his handsome features, and leaning his shoulder against the side of a doorway, he remained with his eyes tracking the evolutions of two of the figures glancing before him. After he had remained motionless for some minutes, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were, apparently, of no over-pleasant nature, a gentle touch on the arm aroused him, and, looking round, he perceived Arabella Crofton. She was about to address him, but by a warning gesture he silenced her, and she remained standing silently beside him until, in a low, stem voice, he asked abruptly-- “How often has she been dancing with him?” “Three times, I believe; but I assure you--” “Hush!” continued Coverdale in the same stem, impressive voice, which was just above a whisper; “I want facts, not comments. Has she danced with any one else since he has been here?” “Not that I am aware of,” was the reply. “She danced with a young guardsman before he came.” “And since?” “They have been either dancing or talking together, except for about ten minutes, during the last two hours.” Coverdale made no reply, but his lips became more sternly compressed, and the shade on his brow grew deeper, until the dance concluded, then muttering--