The other young men accepted this final signal with demonstrations of rapture. Little did they guess that it was not for them, but for that quiet, gentlemanly-looking fellow a few yards to their left. If they were not aware of this, he was. “Who is that man on the platform,” said Lady Rachel, “that looks as if he was seeing us off too? There is no one else in the car but ourselves.” “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Mr. West. “There are heaps of people going over, though I dare say he belongs to the Ravenstayle party. Lord Ravenstayle is in the train. It would not surprise me if it were his nephew, Cosmo Woodwing--aristocratic-looking sort of chap--and took a good stare at you, eh, Maddie?” facetiously. “Will know you again next time he sees you?”--highly delighted at his own conceit. “I suppose you have no idea who he is, eh?” Madeline had an excellent idea of who he was, but this was no time to confide her secret to her parent--better to save this little domestic bomb for a more discreet opportunity. Madeline had a shrewd idea that the mysterious gentleman who had taken a good long look at her--the presumable Lord Cosmo Woodwing--was her own husband! CHAPTER XVII. GONE TO IRELAND. Laurence Wynne stood upon the platform and watched the Irish mail--“The Wild Irishman”--wind its great long body slowly out of the station--watched till the red light, like a fiery eye, became smaller and smaller, and disappeared from view. Then he hurried off to Waterloo to catch his own train--which he missed--and, going by the next, walked from Guildford, a distance of twelve miles, arriving home at one o’clock in the morning, to the intense relief of Mrs. Holt, who had been sitting up for him in a nightcap of portentous dimensions, and who, seeing that he looked tired and dusty, and what she mentally termed “down,” was disposed to be a very mother to him, even to setting a cold supper before him at that unparalleled and improper hour, and staying him with a flagon of her own home-brewed ale--a sure token of favour. “And so she’s gone!” she exclaimed at last, when she could absolutely contain herself no longer. “Actually gone to Ireland.” “Yes, Mrs. Holt, she is gone,” acquiesced her lodger, coolly. “And goodness knows when she will come back,” she continued indignantly. “Dear, dear, dear! I wonder what _my_ master would say if I’d a done the like--just walking off and leaving him and an infant to fend for themselves; but I suppose fine folk is different, and don’t mind?” giving her cap-frills a mighty toss.