the pallor of fear, for at that instant very thankful was the younger man that he had no serious wrongs, as regarded his father’s friend, with which to reproach himself; but the sight of John Beacham perplexed and startled him. It was connected, of course, with Honor’s flight from home; and there existed, undoubtedly, a certain awkwardness in the fact that he, Arthur, was so much better informed regarding Honor’s whereabouts than was the husband from whom that misguided young woman ought, in the opinion of sticklers for marital rights, have had no secrets of any kind whatsoever. “_You_ here! Beacham, how is this?” Arthur said, holding out a hand which was not taken; and then the anger of the older man, a moment controlled by the sight he had just witnessed above-stairs, burst out afresh. Drawing Arthur Vavasour’s slender form back into the house, and holding the arm of his enemy with the fixedness of a vice, he said in a voice tremulous with concentrated passion, “You ask me, do you, why I am here? What if, in return, I call you _scoundrel_, and ask you where you have taken my wife? for you have been with her; I see it in your face--your white, cowardly face. God, that I should live to speak so to your father’s son!” And, half-overpowered with contending emotions, John sank upon a chair that stood in the large empty hall, and gazed for a moment helplessly upon the young handsome features, which at that terrible moment reminded him strangely of Cecil Vavasour, of the man whom in all his life he had most loved and respected. “John,” Arthur exclaimed, “do not, for God’s sake, talk in this way. I declare before Heaven that you are mistaken. I swear to you that your wife--” “Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” cried John impetuously. Poor fellow! he would have caught only too gladly at the belief that his suspicions were unfounded, and that his still dearly loved Honor had been foolish only, but not guilty. O no, not guilty! the thought of that evil was too dreadful to be endured; so he said very eagerly, and with a touching entreaty in his tone, “Mr. Vavasour, only say--swear it to me by your father’s memory--that within these three days you have neither seen nor heard from my wife, and I will thank and bless you to my dying day.” But Arthur could not, dared not, swear to this. With all his longing, not only to save Honor, but to console and reassure the excellent man who had ever treated him with such frank and cordial kindness, he could not take the oath required of him. He could not, even for the woman whom he loved, _quite_ drag what he called his honour in the dirt.