For a moment the girl stood rigid, staring down at the serene but death-pale face at her feet; and then the door swung violently open to admit a very tall man who ran to kneel and lift that slender form, to chafe the nerveless hands and drop hot tears upon the pallid cheek. “John, John.... O John.... O lad—is this the end——” Sir John Dering’s eyes opened, and he stared up into the square, bronzed face above him with a faint smile. “Hector ... is’t you, Hector?” he whispered. “Tell her ... the lady ... that I think ... her vengeance will end ... to-night! Which is ... very well—” “Woman,” cried the man Hector, lifting agonised face, “if ye be true woman run for the surgeon quick, ere he die!” “Die?” she echoed. “Aye—’twere better he died, far better for him—and for me!” So saying, she turned and sped from the room, laughing wildly as she ran. CHAPTER I WHICH INTRODUCES THE DOG WITH A BAD NAME Sir John Dering, at loss for a rhyme, paused in the throes of composition to flick a speck of dust from snowy ruffle, to glance from polished floor to painted ceiling, to survey his own reflection in the mirror opposite, noting with a critical eye all that pertained to his exquisite self, the glossy curls of his great, black periwig, the graceful folds of full-skirted, embroidered coat, his sleek silk stockings and dainty, gold-buckled shoes; and discovering naught in his resplendent person to cavil at, turned back to his unfinished manuscript, sighing plaintively. “‘Soul’!” he murmured; “a damnable word, so many rhymes to’t and none of ’em apt! Roll, coal, hole, foal, goal, pole ... a devilish word! Mole, shoal, vole—pish!” It was at this precise juncture that the latch behind him was lifted softly and upon the threshold stood a man whose height and breadth seemed to fill the doorway, a man whose hard-worn clothes were dusty with travel, whose long, unkempt periwig, set somewhat askew, framed a lean, brown face notable for a pair of keen, blue eyes and the fierce jut of brow, cheek-bone and jaw: a shabby person, indeed, and very much at odds with the dainty luxury of the chamber before him. Thus, Hector MacLean, or more properly, General Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, six foot four of Highland Scot, having surveyed painted walls, polished floor and frescoed ceiling, folded mighty arms, scowled at Sir John’s shapely, unconscious back and emitted a sound that none but a true-born Scot may ever achieve. “Umph-humph!” exclaimed Hector MacLean; whereupon Sir John started, dropped his quill and was upon his feet all in a moment, modish languor and exquisite affectations all forgotten in eager welcome. “Hector!” he exclaimed, grasping the Scot’s two bony fists; “Hector man, what should bring you all the way to Paris—and me—after all this time?” “Four years, John, four years and mair!” nodded Sir Hector. “Four years and they might be eight, judging by y’r looks. Lad, I’d hardly know ye ... sic a mighty fine gentleman an’ sae pale——”