“One was some years older than the other, and was dark, with black eyes. The young lady had lighter hair. They were going on to Brussels, and I took it that the elder lady and gentleman were newly married,” said the steward, “they were that sickish, begging your pardon.” “There’s no doubt we are on the right track,” cried Sir John, in a tone of relief. Atkins paid the steward the promised sovereign, and led the way ashore and to the waiting cab. “To the hotel,” he ordered. The gentlemen entered the vehicle and hastened back to the Langham. Atkins was very thoughtful and silent during the journey, but as they drove up to the hotel he said: “We are tired Lord Towyn, and must have rest. I propose that we sleep here to-night, and go on to Dover and Ostend in the morning. I know how anxious and impatient you are, but we must not overtask our strength. You look quite worn out.” “It is with anxiety then,” said the young earl. “I am eager to go on, Mr. Atkins, but will wait till morning as you counsel.” The three gentlemen ascended to their private parlor which they shared in common. As they entered the room, a man who was standing at one of the windows, looking out, turned and came forward to meet them. He was the steward of Lord Towyn’s marine place. “You here, Sewel?” exclaimed the young earl. “Is anything the matter?” The steward, an elderly man, with a rugged countenance, as gnarled as an old oak, yet full of kindly warmth, shook his head as he answered: “There’s nothing wrong, my lord; but you ordered any letters to be sent to you, and knowing how anxious you were, I feared the letter might miscarry, and here it is. I brought it myself.” “A letter!” cried the three gentlemen in chorus, having no thought of any letter save the one they so much desired. “It’s in a lady’s hand, and that’s why I brought it,” said the steward. He took out his pocket-book and drew from it a small square envelope, daintily addressed and sealed. Lord Towyn uttered a cry of joy, recognizing the handwriting at once. “It is from Neva!” he ejaculated. He hurried with it to a window, turning his back on his friends, and tore open the envelope, disclosing a four-page letter, signed with the name of Neva Wynde. “Ah!” he cried aloud. “It is dated Brussels.” “We were on the right track then,” said Atkins exultantly. The young earl perused his letter with a glad heart. It was very tender and very sweet, full of delicate allusions to their betrothal, and was indeed such a letter as only a woman could write, yet the young lover was not satisfied. The letter lacked the straightforward simplicity that distinguished Neva, and it seemed to Lord Towyn to lack also sincerity. It had been written from the head rather than from the heart, and his first great joy and gladness gave way to a sudden and terrible sense of disappointment. The steward, seeing that he was not wanted, went quietly from the room, intent upon securing his dinner.