There was a brief silence. Mr. Isaacs glanced at me, whistled softly to himself, and then strolled slowly over to the window, as though to see what sort of a night it was. Miss Fay glanced at me impatiently, with a slight contraction in her eyebrows. I longed desperately to get away, but for the life of me could think of no excuse. "You won't offer your escort, then, Mr. Morton?" she whispered. "I can't. I don't know the town--never was here before--and we have a twelve-mile drive before us. We are expecting the carriage every moment. Ah, there it is!" I added, with a sudden sense of relief, as I heard the sound of horses' feet stamping and pawing outside and the jingling of harness. "Mr. Marx, Burdett has come!" I called out. He looked up, frowning. "All right; there's no hurry!" he said. "If you're not ready, pray don't study me. I should enjoy a cigar and a brandy-and-soda down at the 'Bell' before we start." "I'm quite ready, thanks," I answered slowly, for his words and manner had given me something to think about. "If you don't mind, I should like to be getting away. It's a long way, you know." "Oh, pray don't let me detain you!" Miss Fay exclaimed, tossing her head. "Mr. Isaacs, if you're ready, I am. Good-night, Mr. Marx; good-night, Mr. Morton!" She drew me a little on one side--a manoeuvre which I was powerless to prevent--and whispered in my ear: "You shy, stupid boy! There!" She shook hands with me again and left something in my palm. When they were gone and I was in the passage, I looked at it. It was a plain card and on it was hastily scribbled an address: Miss Mabel Fay, 15, Queen Street. I felt my cheeks flush as I tore it into pieces and flung them on the ground. Then I followed Mr. Marx out to the carriage and, leaning back among the cushions by his side, I began seriously to consider an idea which every trifling incident during the latter part of the evening had pointed to; Mr. Marx had deliberately tried to lead me into making a fool of myself with Miss Mabel Fay. Why? CHAPTER XVIII. AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MOOR. We were more than half-way home before Mr. Marx broke a silence which was becoming oppressive. "Well, have you enjoyed your evening?" he asked. "Of course I have, and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me to the theatre," I added. After all, perhaps I was misjudging him. What possible motive could he have for being my enemy? "Oh, that's all right," he declared, carefully lighting a cigar and throwing the match out of the window. "I'm afraid you've had more than one illusion dispelled this evening, though," he went on, smiling. "You must have had plenty of time and opportunity, too, for weaving them, out here all your life. Have you never been away to visit your relations, or anything of that sort?" I shook my head.