The blood throbbed in his head. He felt her warm, magnetic hand tighten upon his wrist. Her soft, lisping voice, and the delicate perfume which came from her dress, seemed to lull the misery which had torn him. Already, in her presence, the fierce longing for his wife which had possessed him was growing more faint. Here was a woman, beautiful and tender, who did indeed love him. Why should his heart still dwell upon that other one who had brought unhappiness and disgrace to him? “Which way will be yours, Frank?” “The same as yours, Lucille.” “Ah, at last!” she cried, throwing her arms about him. “Did I not know that I should win you back?” A sharp cry, a cry as from a stricken heart, and a dark shadow fell between the pair. Lord Francis started to his feet. Fenella was standing in front of them, her hands thrown out, her eyes blazing with anger. “You villain!” she gasped. “You false villain!” She put her hands to her throat, and struggled with her words like a choking woman. Lord Francis Onslow looked down, while the blood flushed to his temple. Mme. de Vigny stood beside him, her hands folded across each other, and a look of defiance and anger upon her face. “I came out here to tell you that I had forgiven you. Do you hear? That I had forgiven you. And this is how I find you. Oh, I shall never forgive you now--never, never, never! Why were you so nice to me this morning, if you meant to treat me so?” “One word, Fenella,” cried Onslow. “Answer me one question, and if I have wronged you I will go down on my bended knees to you. Tell me truthfully, and on your honor, were you in the company of De Mürger last week?” “And if I were, sir?” “Were you or were you not?” “I was.” “You were with him in the Park?” “I was.” “Then that is enough. I have no more to say. Madame, let me offer you my arm!” He walked past his wife with her rival, and the dresses of the two women would have touched had Fenella not sprung back with a cry of disgust, as one who shrinks from a poisonous thing. Mme. de Vigny laughed, and her proud sparkling eyes told of the triumph which filled her soul. Fenella Onslow stood for an instant in the middle of the sunlit walk, her little right hand clenched with anger, her gaze turned toward the retreating figures. Then a sudden lurid thought flashed into her mind, and she started off as rapidly as she could in the direction of the railway station. Clitheroe Jacynth’s train did not leave for ten minutes. Ronny had told her of the hour of his departure. The barrister was standing, moody and disconsolate, upon the platform, when he felt a light touch upon his shoulder, and looking round, saw a flushed little woman, with sparkling eyes, looking up at him. “Fenella!” he cried. “Yes, you must not go.” “Not go?” “No, you must come back.” “You bid me?” “Yes, I bid you. You must come back to the hotel.” “But it was you who this very morning drove me away from it.”