So Tom, upon the following afternoon, started for the old dilapidated house, without saying a word to anyone as to his destination, and was eagerly admitted by a haggard-looking servant, who said that his master was “terrible bad to-day—it was awful like to hear him go on,” and expressed it as his opinion that he was almost past knowing who was near him, he was so wild and delirious. He had kept his bed for the past two days, having been very ill since coming in, wet and exhausted, on the night Monica had seen him. Between the attacks of delirium he was as weak as a child; and with this much of warning and explanation, Tom was ushered upstairs. An hour later he left that desolate house with a quick, firm tread, that broke, as he turned a corner and was concealed from view, almost to a run. His face was very pale; it looked thinner and sharper than it had done an hour before, and his eyes were full of an unspeakable horror. Now and again a sort of shudder ran through his frame; but no word passed his tightly-compressed lips. He hurried through the tangled park as if some deadly malaria lurked there. He hardly drew his breath until he had left the trees and brake behind, and had plunged into the wild trackless moor; even then, goaded by his thoughts, he plunged blindly along for a mile or more, until at last, breathless and exhausted, he sank face downwards upon the heather, trembling in every limb. How long he lay there he never knew. He was roused at last by a touch upon his shoulder, and raising himself with a start, he looked straight into the startled eyes of Beatrice Wentworth. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. LOVERS. Tom sprang to his feet, and the two stood gazing at one another for a moment in mute surprise. “You are ill,” said Beatrice; “you are as white as a sheet. What is the matter?” She spoke anxiously. She looked half frightened at his strange looks; he saw it, and recovered himself instantly. It was perhaps the first time he had ever been taken unawares, and he was not altogether pleased that it had happened now. “What are you doing out here all alone?” he asked peremptorily. “What are you doing lying on the ground on a cold January evening?” she retorted. “Do you want to get rheumatic fever, too?” “Answer my question first. What are you doing out here, miles away from home, with the darkness coming on, too?” “I lost my way,” she answered carelessly. “I never can keep my bearings in these strange, wild places, where everything looks alike.” “Then I must take you home,” said Tom shortly. “You said you were going to dine at St. Maws to-night,” she objected. “I shall take you home first,” he said. “It will be ever so much out of your road. Just show me the way. I shall find it fast enough.” “I dare say—After having lost it in broad daylight. You must come with me. I cannot trust you.” Beatrice flushed hotly as she turned and walked beside him. Was more meant than met the ear?