“Suppose you go then? What will you say to the coroner, or police justice? What excuse will you have for abandoning your wife, as you persist in calling the girl? Shall you confess your perjury? Can you stand the cross-questioning, the badgering, the prying into your life and motives?” Rufus shrank within himself in a sort of terror. The besetting weakness and cowardice of his nature now paralyzed him. “I cannot go,” he muttered. “Oh, Lally, my lost wronged wife!” He dashed from the room, and entered his own, locking his door, and was not visible again that day. Craven Black attired himself in morning costume and walked over to Hawkhurst. Neva was in the park, and he had a long private interview with Lady Wynde. In returning to his inn, he crossed the park, ostensibly to cut short his walk, but really to exchange a few words with the heiress. He found her in one of the wide shaded paths, but she was not alone. Lord Towyn, on his way to the house, had just encountered her, and they were talking to each other, in utter forgetfulness of any supposed obstacles to their mutual love. Craven Black accosted them, and lingered a few moments, and then pursued his way homeward, while the young couple slowly proceeded toward the house. Craven Black called at Hawkhurst the next day, and the next, but alone, Rufus remaining obstinately sequestered in his darkened chamber. Neva was busy with visitors, Lady Freise and her daughters, and other friends and neighbors, hastening to call upon the returned heiress. Lord Towyn found excuses to call nearly every day. He was devoting all his energies to the task of wooing and winning Neva, and he pushed his suit with an ardor that brought a cynical smile to Craven Black’s lips continually. There were fetes given at Freise Hall in Neva’s honor; breakfast and lawn parties at other houses; and the young girl found herself in a whirl of gayety in strong contrast with her late life of seclusion. During the week that followed the publication of the announcement of Lally Bird’s suicide, Rufus Black did not cross his threshold. He meditated suicide, and wept and bemoaned his lost darling with genuine anguish. During this week, Craven Black made various overtures to Miss Wynde, uttered graceful compliments to her when Lady Wynde was not within hearing, and threw a lover-like ardor into his tones and countenance when addressing her. But he could not see that he was regarded by her with any favor, and grew anxious that his son should again enter the lists, and win her from Lord Towyn, who seemed to be having the field nearly to himself.