“Here’s a bit of good news at last, anyway,” thought Henry, as he put down the letter: “whatever happens to us, Joan and I won’t starve, and I dare say that we can be jolly enough out there. By Jove! if it wasn’t for my mother and the thought that some of my father’s debts must remain unpaid, I should almost be happy,” and for a moment or two he gave himself over to a reverie in which the thought of Joan and of her tender love and beauty played the largest part (for he tried to forget the jarring tone of that second letter) Joan, whom, after so long an absence, he should see again that day. Then, remembering that the rest of his correspondence was unread, he took up an envelope and opened it without looking at the address. In five seconds it was on the floor beside him, and he was murmuring, with pale lips, “I was married this afternoon to Samuel Rock.” Impossible! it must be a hoax! Stooping down, he found the letter and examined it carefully. Either it was in Joan’s writing, or the forgery was perfect. Then he thought of the former letter, of which the tenor had disgusted him; and it occurred to him that it was an epistle which a woman contemplating some such treachery might very well have written. Had he, then, been deceived all along in this girl’s character? It would seem so. And yet—and yet! She had sworn that she loved him, and that she hated the man Rock. What could have been her object in doing this thing? One only that he could see,—money. Rock was a rich man, and he was a penniless baronet. If this letter were genuine, it became clear that she thought him good enough for a lover but not for a husband; that she had amused herself with him, and now threw him over in favour of the solid advantages of a prosperous marriage with a man in her own class of life. Well, he had heard of women playing such tricks, and the hypothesis explained the attitude which Joan had all along adopted upon the question of becoming his wife. He remembered that from the first she disclaimed any wish to marry him. Oh! if this were so, what a blind fool he had been, and how unnecessarily had he tormented himself with doubts and searchings for the true path of duty! But as yet he could not believe that it was true. There must be some mistake. At least he would go to London and ascertain the facts before he passed judgment on the faith of such evidence. Why had he not gone before, in defiance of the doctor and Mrs. Bird? Half an hour later he was driving to the station. As he drew near to Bradmouth he perceived a man walking along the road, in whom he recognised Samuel Rock. “There’s an end of that lie,” he thought to himself, with a sigh of relief; “for if she married him yesterday afternoon he would be in London with her, since he could scarcely have returned here to spend his honeymoon.”