He turned and started toward the end of the long hall, searching for a bell that he might summon a servant. Presently it occurred to him that he had no idea of the doctor’s name, and that there might be several doctors. He stopped, turned, and came back noiselessly upon the heavy rug and all but invisible in the dusk of the unlighted hallway. Suddenly he stopped. The girl had been watching Barclay as he went up the stairs. As he passed out of sight, she turned and dropped into a chair with a little sigh, like one who has been under a strain. On the table beside her lay the silk muffler in which his arm had been tied. She took it up and began folding it. Then she smoothed it with curious little strokings and touches, and then suddenly pressing it to her cheek, put it down and disappeared through the morning-room doorway in a confusion in which she had surprised herself. Mr. Carteret stepped back behind a curtain, and when he was sure that Lady Mary was not coming back, instead of ordering the doctor, he went to Barclay’s room. “I should like to know,” he began, “how it was that you were riding Mary Granvil’s horse?” Barclay met his look steadily. “I wanted to try it with a view to purchase,” he answered. “You know Lady Withers had said she wished to sell it.” “Excuse me for being plain,” said Mr. Carteret, “but my opinion is that no man would have ridden that horse when hounds were running unless he wanted to marry either the woman who owned it or the woman who was riding it.” “Well?” said Barclay. “Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “is it Lady Withers?” “No,” said Barclay decisively; “it isn’t Lady Withers.” Mr. Carteret looked at his young friend with outward indifference. Inwardly he was experiencing much relief. “When are you going to announce your engagement?” he asked. Barclay shook his head grimly. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I’m up against it, I fancy.” “It’s not my business,” said Mr. Carteret, “but I should like to know what you mean.” “Why, in a word, Carty,” said Barclay, “I’m not _it_, that’s all, and the situation is such that I don’t see what I can do to make her change her mind.” Mr. Carteret looked perplexed. What he had seen in the hall gave him a feeling of guilt. “When did she refuse you?” he asked at last. “She hasn’t refused me,” answered Barclay. “You don’t ask a woman to marry you when you know that she cares for some one else.” “So she cares for some one else?” observed Mr. Carteret. “You could guess whom,” said Barclay. “Supposing she does like Brinton a bit,” said Mr. Carteret, “what’s to prevent you from getting into the race?” “Can’t you see!” exclaimed Barclay. “If Lady Withers thought I wanted to marry her,--you know what she’d do.” “Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “if she isn’t forced to marry _your_ money, she’ll have to marry Tappingwell-Sikes’s, and, on the whole, I think she’d prefer your railroads to his beer.”