Ismay was gay as any lark that next morning. Her path, that had been so hard to tread, seemed sure and easy now; her course of action plain. When Miles came, as of course he would come to see how she was, she would tell him all--everything. With those showy cuff-links of Marcus Wray’s in her remembrance, that broken jewel in her keeping, that had never been her mother’s, she had something to go on. Miles should know all; she would keep nothing back, and then they two, together, should bring guilt home to Marcus Wray. For, with the certainty of a person whose intuitions are never wrong, she was sure that it was he who had poisoned Abbotsford, he who had managed so cleverly that if anything were discovered, it was Mrs. Trelane who should bear the whole brunt. But the morning passed, and no Miles. The waiting, the hope deferred, made her pale. And there was too much at stake--she could not afford to wait. She slipped out to the stable and sent a groom with a note. “Please come to the stile at four. I’m quite well to-day, and I must see you. I have something to tell you. “ISMAY.” Something to tell him! Cylmer’s face hardened as he read. He heard beforehand the smooth, plausible story she would have made ready when Cristiane--as Cristiane was sure to do--had told her of the night before. “I won’t go. I can’t see her,” he thought wretchedly, and yet his longing was too much for him. He would see her once more--once more feast his eyes on her fatal beauty that had weaned him from all simple loves forever; he would tell her that he knew, and bid her save herself and her mother, and go. “I will be there at four,” he wrote, without beginning or signature, and Ismay as she read it only thought how careful he was to write nothing that could matter if other hands opened his note. “He hates writing. He never even says he is glad I’m all right.” She kissed the little note before she burned it, not thinking that never again would Miles Cylmer write to Ismay Trelane. She evaded the others that afternoon with some trouble, so that she was late at the stile. Miles was there before her, very tall, very handsome in the gray light. For the day was thawing drearily. “Miles”--her voice rang out sweetly, joyfully, as he had heard it in his dreams--“I’m here! I’m quite well. Aren’t you glad?” She stopped abruptly as she reached his side, saw his face. “Miles, what’s the matter?” An agony of terror such as all her hunted life had never known made her dizzy as she looked. He could not answer. He was fighting with that worst pain on earth when a man has learned to distrust and hate all that has been most dear and sweet and true. “Are you sorry you saved me?” She tried hard for his old light mirth. “Is that it?” Cylmer shivered. Truly he would rather she had died than that he should have known this of her.