THE beat of hoofs died away, and Tony shivered as he strove to collect his scattered wits. He wanted to think, but mental effort had always been distasteful to his easy‐going nature, and now the faculty of concentration had deserted him. It was also very cold out on the terrace, for the raw wind was driving a thin drizzle before it, and Tony was fond of warmth and light, so with a little shake of his shoulders he went back into the house, and sought inspiration in a stiff brandy‐and‐ soda. After that he felt a little more cheerful, and decided that in the meanwhile there was nothing to be done but refrain from unnecessary worry and wait events, which was the usual course with him. There was, it seemed, nothing to be gained by involving himself before suspicion was cast upon his friend. He, however, spent an unpleasant five minutes with his uncle, who asked a few general questions respecting the affair, in the library, and then went down to dinner, where Violet Wayne did not find him a very entertaining companion. She, however, noticed that he allowed his glass to be filled more frequently than usual, for Tony was an abstemious man, and during a lull in the conversation turned to him. “I have spoken to you at least three times without getting an answer, Tony,” she said. “One could almost fancy that you had something on your mind to‐night.” Tony did not meet the questioning gaze of the big grave eyes, though there was a sympathetic gleam in them. “I have a headache. Gun headache, you know,” he said. “I got a warm corner, and fired every cartridge I had. I had them specially loaded with an extra quarter‐ounce, too.” Violet Wayne appeared thoughtful, for she had heard the other men grumbling at the scarcity of pheasants that afternoon; but she was a wise young woman, and did not tell Tony so. “What has become of Mr. Appleby?” she asked. “Gone away,” said Tony. “He left just after we came in.” Again Violet Wayne glanced at him with grave quietness, but Tony was looking at his plate just then. “His train does not leave for an hour yet,” she said. Violet Wayne did not often speak without reflection, but she blundered then. Tony Palliser was not the man to boldly choose his path, but rather addicted to follow the one events seemed to force him into, and she who might have proved his good angel helped to start him down hill. “He was going to Liverpool,” he said, and a moment later regretted it. “To Liverpool! What has taken him there? He told me he was going back to his office.”