“Put up the hood, Charles. The sun’s very hot for Miss Gilletson.” “Yes, my lord.” “Nobody’ll see you if you get out a hundred yards from the door--and it’s really better than tramping the road on a day like this. Of course, if Beach Path were open----!” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss Gilletson’s heart with the horror of the hot and tiring walk--with the seduction of the shady, softly rolling, speedy carriage. “If I met Helena!” she whispered; and the whisper was an admission of reciprocal confidence. “It’s the chance of that against the certainty of the tramp!” “She didn’t come down to breakfast this morning----” “Ah, didn’t she?” Lynborough made a note for his Intelligence Department. “Perhaps she isn’t up yet! I--I think I’ll take the risk.” Lynborough assisted her into the carriage. “I hope we shall meet again,” he said, with no small _empressement_. “I’m afraid not,” answered Miss Gilletson dolefully. “You see, Helena----” “Yes, yes; but ladies have their moods. Anyhow you won’t think too hardly of me, will you? I’m not altogether an ogre.” There was a pretty faint blush on Miss Gilletson’s cheek as she gave him her hand. “An ogre! No, dear Lord Lynborough,” she murmured. “A wedge!” said Lynborough, as he watched her drive away. He was triumphant with what he had achieved--he was full of hope for what he had planned. If he reckoned right, the loyalty of the ladies at Nab Grange to the mistress thereof was tottering, if it had not fallen. His relations with the men awaited the result of the cricket match. Yet neither his triumph nor his hope could in the nature of the case exist without an intermixture of remorse. He hurt--or tried to hurt--what he would please--and hoped to please. His mood was mixed, and his smile not altogether mirthful as he stood looking at the fast-receding carriage. Then suddenly, for the first time, he saw his enemy. Distantly--afar off! Yet without a doubt it was she. As he turned and cast his eyes over the forbidden path--the path whose seclusion he had violated, bold in his right--a white figure came to the sunk fence and stood there, looking not towards where he stood, but up to his castle on the hill. Lynborough edged near to the barricaded gate--a new padlock and new _chevaux-de-frise_ of prickly branches guarded it. The latter, high as his head, screened him completely; he peered through the interstices in absolute security. The white figure stood on the little bridge which led over the sunk fence into the meadow. He could see neither feature nor colour; only the slender shape caught and chained his eye. Tall she was, and slender, as his mocking forecast had prophesied. More than that he could not see.