Their visit had come to an end now, and they had left for home that morning. Unwillingly, it is true, but Mrs. Cray had deemed it wise not to wear out their welcome. They were a large party; and she privately contemplated a longer visit in the spring, during the glories of the London season. Mark had treated them right regally, and had contrived to screw out from some impossible pocket a twenty-pound note, which he put into his mother's hands for the journey. "I shall be able to allow you and the girls something worth having next year, when the ore's in the market regularly," he said to her. Altogether, Mrs. Cray was well satisfied with her impromptu visit. "I say, Carine," cried Mark, coming forth from his dressing-room, "what's gone with my diamond studs?" "Where's the use of asking me?" was Carine's answer, who was turning herself slowly round before the large glass, to contemplate the effect of a new dress which her maid had just finished fixing upon her. "You must make haste, Mark, or we shall be late. The dinner's at seven, mind; and I know it does not want above a quarter." "We shall get there in five minutes," carelessly answered Mark. "I can't find my diamond studs." "I think they are in your dressing-case, sir," spoke up the maid. "I saw them there a day or two ago." Mark went back, and found he had overlooked them. He finished dressing himself, all but the coat, and came into his wife's room again. "Carry, isn't it old what's-his-name's affair tonight in Kensington Gardens? We promised to go, didn't we?" "Of course we did, Mark. I intend to go, too. He says it will be a charming party in spite of the world being out of town. We shall get away from the dinner by ten o'clock, I daresay. Shall I do?" She was turning herself round before the glass, as before. Between two glasses, in fact, one in front, one behind. Her dress was some beautiful fabric, white and mauve; and her violet eyes and her glowing cheeks spoke all too plainly of her besetting vanity. Certainly, if vanity is ever pardonable, it was in Caroline Cray as she stood there, so radiant in her youth and beauty. "Oh, you'll do," returned Mark, with scant gallantry; but his white necktie had been refractory, and he was resettling it again. At that moment he heard a knock at his dressing-room door. "Who's there? Come in," he called out, stepping into his own room. One of the men-servants entered and presented a card to him. Mark, whose hands were busy with his necktie, bent his head to read it as it lay on the silver waiter. "Mr. Brackenbury." "Mr. Brackenbury!" repeated Mark to himself. "Who on earth's Mr. Brackenbury? I can't see anybody now," he said to the servant. "Tell him so. I am just going out." "I told the gentleman you were on the point of going out with my mistress, sir, that the carriage was waiting at the door; but he insisted on coming in, and said you would be sure to see him." "Who is it?" cried Caroline, stepping forward.