Janet’s tall figure and noble face appeared conspicuously among figures less perfect, faces more commonplace, and by her side stood the man whom Geoffrey Hossack had seen in the flesh, wild, unkempt, haggard, famished, savage, amidst the awful solitude of the pine-forest. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the man.’ CHAPTER IV. LUCIUS MAKES A CONFESSION. It was nearly six o’clock when Geoffrey and his cousins left Mardenholme. On descending from Lady Baker’s apartments in quest of Belle and Jessie, Mr. Hossack had found those two damsels wandering among the shrubberies in the forlornest manner, vainly striving to stifle frequent yawns, so unentertaining had been the society of the devoted Mr. and Mrs. Wimple, ‘who scarcely did anything but whisper and titter to each other all the time we were with them,’ Belle said afterwards. ‘I thought you were playing croquet,’ said Geoffrey, when he found this straggling party in a grove of arbutus and magnolia. ‘We _have_ been playing croquet,’ answered Jessie, with some asperity; ‘but one can’t play croquet for ever. There’s nothing in Dante’s infernal regions more dreadful than that would be. We played as long as we could; Mr. and Mrs. Wimple were tired ever so long before we finished.’ ‘No, indeed,’ exclaimed the Wimples simultaneously. ‘What have you been doing all this time, Geoffrey?’ asked Belle. ‘Lady Baker has been so kind as to show me her pictures.’ ‘Yes, of course; but you needn’t have been hours looking at them. We must get back directly, or we shall be late for dinner. Ah, there is Lady Baker,’ cried Belle, as her ladyship appeared on the terrace before the drawing-room windows. ‘Come and say good-bye, Jessie, and get the boat ready, Geoff. You’ll have to row us back in an hour. Nothing vexes papa so much as any one being late for dinner. I don’t think he would wait more than ten minutes for an archbishop.’ ‘I’ll row like old boots,’ answered Geoffrey; whereupon the young ladies ran off to take an affectionate leave of Lady Baker, while their cousin sauntered down to the weeping willow to whose lowest branch he had moored the wherry. In five minutes they had embarked, and the oars were dipping in the smooth water. They were at Hillersdon in time to dress, somewhat hurriedly, for the all-important eight-o’clock dinner, which went off pleasantly enough. All that evening cousin Geoffrey made himself particularly agreeable—listened to Belle’s breakneck fantasias and Jessie’s newest ballads with every appearance of rapture; played chess with Belle, and bézique with Jessie, and allowed himself to be beaten by both. ‘What a delightful evening we have had!’ said Belle, as she wished him good-night. ‘Why don’t you come to us oftener, Geoffrey?’ ‘I mean to come very often in future,’ replied the impostor, hardly knowing what he said. At breakfast next morning there was no sign of Geoffrey; but just as Belle had seated herself before the urn, the butler appeared with a letter.