“I am ready, sir,” answered Wiginton; and they started at a brisk pace for Bridgton Hall. About half-way there they met the inspector with his two men on their way home, looking none the worse for their night’s watch, thanks to their numerous visits to the butler’s pantry. Colonel Dacre heard from them that the ball was virtually over, but that a few favorite guests still remained, although they could not exactly say who these last were. “However, Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur is one,” added the inspector, volunteering the information Colonel Dacre dared not ask; “for the driver from the George was asleep in the harness-room when I left; and I don’t expect he would have stayed there unless he had been obliged.” It did not seem probable, certainly, and so Colonel Dacre left Wiginton to return with the inspector, and went on alone. Of course Lady Gwendolyn had gone to the ball, and, of course, she would be the gayest of them all, outwardly, for had she not a secret to hide? He could not help pitying her somehow. She had put her hand to a terrible thing, but maybe she had had a scoundrel to deal with, and had been sorely tempted, poor, unhappy child! His heart was beginning to soften strangely when he came within sight and sound of Bridgton Hall, but it hardened again as he paused to listen to a waltz he knew only too well. Surely that must be Lady Gwendolyn’s touch--her spirited playing. For the band had been dismissed, evidently, and they were keeping up the ball to the music of the piano, which came surging through the open windows and out into the dewy shrubberies as if it would have the young man listen and remember. And he did remember, to his torture. The waltz finished as he drew near to the door, and two women came forward to the window, and stood there inhaling the freshness of the morning. Both were dressed in white: one looked flushed and excited under her wreath of water-lilies; the other, languid but lovely, turned her calm deep eyes his way, and, recognizing him, grew suddenly scarlet to the roots of her hair. He stepped forward at once and lifted his hat, saying, in a cold, constrained voice: “Might I speak with you a moment, Lady Gwendolyn?” The color faded out of her face, but she looked up at him steadily and unflinchingly. “I am afraid I have no time now, Colonel Dacre. I have ordered my fly, and expect it round every minute.” “I will not detain your ladyship long,” he said; and his voice was like ice. “It is absolutely necessary that you should hear what I have to say, otherwise I would not disturb you at such a time and in such a place.” She lifted her head with a haughty gesture. “It is impossible you should have anything of so much importance to communicate to me, Colonel Dacre.” “I think you will find that you are mistaken, Lady Gwendolyn.” His stern, decided manner evidently startled her, for she turned to Lady Teignmouth, who was standing at her side, and said quietly: