Neva sealed and addressed this letter to Lord Towyn, and then stamping it, stole softly out into the ante-room. Celeste sat there sewing a frill upon one of her mistress’ robes by the light of candles, but she arose at Neva’s entrance. “Celeste,” said the young girl, in a whisper, “here is my letter. And here are five pounds for the boy, and five pounds for you,” and she took out two crisp Bank of England notes from her well-filled pocket-book. “When I receive the answer to this letter which I expect, I will give you as much more. You must be very secret, and let no one see you. Have you spoken to the boy?” “Yes, Miss, and he has got a rough Highland pony, and he says he’ll start for Inverness immediately.” With a feeling of relief, Neva placed the two bank-notes and the money in the hands of the French woman. “Go,” she whispered. “And remember, let no one suspect your errand.” The French woman assented, and putting the money and the letter in her pocket, hurried away. “I am forced to trust her, having no one else to trust,” said Neva to herself, after a few minutes of reflection. “Surely she would not take my money and deliberately betray me? She must know my position, but she cannot be sure that I know it. The money must tempt her to be true to me. But will the boy be true? I must see him--I will see him!” She acted upon the impulse, going out into the hall, and softly descending the stairs. Here she paused, uncertain whether to seek the youth in the kitchen, or out at the stable. He was more likely to be at the latter place, and she flitted along the hall, pausing abruptly as a burst of laughter came from the drawing-room, the door of which was ajar. She had halted at a point which commanded a view of the interior of the drawing-room, and involuntarily she looked in. The sight she beheld absolutely transfixed her for the moment. She beheld Craven Black seated at the centre-table, under a swinging lamp whose light fell full upon him. His wife was looking over his shoulder. Mrs. Artress and the treacherous French woman stood at a little distance, looking also at Mr. Black. And he--and he--Neva could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses--he was reading her letter which she had written to her lover, and he twirled his waxed mustaches and uttered little mocking sneers as some especially tender passage came under his vision. “By Jove, she’s sweet on Lord Towyn!” he muttered, with bitter envy, and jealousy, his brows darkening. “But to go on. ‘Oh, my own Arthur--’” With the spring of a leopardess, with her soul on fire, with her wild eyes flaming, with a cry of awful indignation on her lips, Neva bounded into the room, snatched the letter from the hands of Craven Black, and retreated a few steps, clutching it to her bosom, and glaring around her like some fierce wild creature turned at bay. CHAPTER X. THE INAUGURATION OF HOSTILITIES.