"You can see _me_, Oswald. I must and will see you, and I shall stop here till you let me in." A loud knock at the door with a heavy-headed cane accompanied the close of his speech. Sir Oswald opened the door, and admitted the captain, who pushed his chair dexterously through the doorway. "Well," said this eccentric visitor, when Sir Oswald had shut the door, "so you've not been to bed all night?" "How do you know that?" "By your looks, for one thing: and by the appearance of your bed, which I can see through the open door yonder, for another. Pretty goings on, these!" "A heavy sorrow has fallen upon me, Copplestone." "Your wife has run away--that's what you mean, I suppose?" "What!" cried Sir Oswald. "It is all known, then?" "What is all known?" "That my wife has left me." "Well, my dear Oswald, there is a rumour of that kind afloat, and I have come here in consequence of that rumour. But I don't believe there's a word of truth in it." The baronet turned from his friend with a bitter smile of derision. "I may strive to hoodwink the world, Copplestone," he said, "but I have no wish to deceive you. My wife has left me--there is no doubt of it." "I don't believe it," cried the captain. "No, Oswald Eversleigh, I don't believe it. You know what I am. I'm not quite like the Miller of Dee, for I do care for somebody; and that somebody is my oldest friend. When I first heard of your marriage, I told you that you were a fool. That was plain-spoken enough, if you like. When I saw your wife, I told you that had changed my mind, and that I thought your folly an excusable one. If ever I saw purity and truth in a woman's face, I saw them in the face of Lady Eversleigh; and I will stake my life that she is as true as steel." Sir Oswald clasped his friend's hand, too deeply moved for words. There was unspeakable consolation in such friendship as this. For the first tame since midnight a ray of hope dawned upon him. He had always trusted in his old comrade's judgment. Might he not trust in him still? When Captain Copplestone left him, he went to his dressing-room, and made even a more than usually careful toilet, and went to face "the world." In the great dining-room he found all his guests assembled, and he took his seat amongst them calmly, though the sight of Honoria's empty place cut him to the heart. Never, perhaps, was a more miserable meal eaten than that breakfast. There were long intervals of silence; and what little conversation there was appeared forced and artificial. Perhaps the most self-possessed person--the calmest to all appearance, of the whole party--was Sir Oswald Eversleigh, so heroic an effort had he made over himself, in order to face the world proudly. He had a few words to say to every one; and was particularly courteous to the guests near him. He opened his letters with an unshaking hand. But he abstained from all allusion to his wife, or the events of the previous evening.