"Well, Henry," said Mrs Stroud, "there's nothing declares to me that you're a reformed character so much as your coming and consulting _me_, as was your true friend in the past always. It's a lucky thing that Stroud has gone down the line to-day to his cousin's funeral. I'll keep your secret, Harry, though the thought of _you_, sitting there so broad-shouldered, and so well-to-do looking, is so amazing that I feel as if it would ooze out of me at the seams of my gown!" "Well, aunt," said Harry, "you're very good, and I hope in a couple of days the concealment will be over." "It's well," said Mrs Stroud, "that that unlucky Florrie knows nothing of it, or she'd have controverted your intentions to a dead certainty." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MOST HASTE, WORST SPEED! Unfortunately for his scheme of meeting with his brother again, poor Edgar awoke the next morning to one of the blinding and overpowering headaches to which over-fatigue and excitement always rendered him liable. There was no chance of getting that day to the trysting-place, no possibility of anything but lying still. He could not write a note to be given to Alwyn, he could hardly even think of a safe message for him. "Tell Wyn--I cannot go out--tell him to--get what I told him--in the wood--he will understand," he said, with a great effort at something that would be comprehensible. "Yes, sir; don't trouble yourself, sir," said Robertson; "it shall be attended to." "And tell him to come for orders to-morrow; I shall be able to go to-morrow." "Very well, sir," said Robertson, privately thinking that his master would be quite unequal to such fatigue to-morrow, or probably for two or three days to come. Edgar chafed and fretted at his incapacity in a way that of course aggravated the headache. It was such a disappointment, besides the anxiety and suspense, not to see Alwyn again. He had not known how much he should care about it. Robertson thought that he had never known his master so restless and impatient. The message to Wyn did not strike anyone as of paramount importance, and was sent down by the footman. "Tell little Warren the pony won't be wanted. Mr Edgar is ill. Warren is to get something, I believe, in the wood--flowers, I suppose--but they won't be wanted to-day." This information was finally shouted out to Wyn by the stable-boy as he fed the peacocks before coming up for orders: "Mr Edgar's ill and can't go out, but he says you're to pick him some flowers instead." "Is that all?" said Wyn, horrified. "That's all, as I knows on." "But I say, what's the matter with Mr Edgar?" "Didn't hear--that was my message."