“I came into the woods to find Miss Cranstoun,” he said, doubtfully. “It was that spy woman sent me. I thought--I hoped,” he stammered, “that you, _mami_ Sarah, might have helped Miss Cranstoun to escape.” The crone broke into her creaking laugh. “Leave it to me, Steve,” she muttered; “old Sarah knows her business. Steve needn’t teach his great-grandmother. Remember all I’ve said to you, dearie,” she added, turning to Stella, “and as for this young man, though you’re Miss Cranstoun of the Chase, he’s your cousin, and you may trust him. Now, good-night to you, my dearies, both. A handsome pair they make, a handsome pair!” So, muttering and gibbering to herself, old Mrs. Lee disappeared again among the trees, huddled in her hooded cloak, and as like the realization of a witch in a fairy-tale as could be imagined, leaving Stephen and Stella standing opposite each other in the dusk, while the rain pattered on the branches above their heads. Stephen was the first to break the silence. Some strange fear of the girl possessed him; he had always been in awe of her, and her unmoved manner of receiving Sarah’s communication struck him as being out of place and strange. “Do you really wish to go back to the house, Miss Cranstoun?” he asked. “Yes.” “You have no desire to escape? Because you have only to say the word, and I will lay down my life trying to set you free. Don’t you want to be free?” “No.” She spoke mechanically, although he felt that in the darkness her eyes were fixed searchingly upon him. He drew a long breath, and then said, in the same constrained tones: “The woman Dakin is waiting for you on the terrace. Shall I take you to her?” “Yes.” Without another word he led the way through the trees on to the grass before the house. It was considerably more than half an hour since Dakin had lost Stella, but she was there on the terrace, anxiously awaiting her. The rain had ceased, and the sky was clear. There was still sufficient light for Stephen, as he suddenly turned to look at his young mistress, to distinguish her features and expression. As he did so, his heart grew cold within him, for the look in her dilated dark eyes was not only wild, but absolutely wicked. CHAPTER XVII. A MAD BRIDE. “I thought you were lost, miss--I did, indeed,” protested Dakin, as Miss Cranstoun, hardly deigning to notice her, swept past her into the house. “And if Sir Philip thought I’d let you run out of the house like that---- Lor’, here he is!” Mistress and maid were crossing the wide hall as Sir Philip entered it from the dining-room. Miss Cranstoun’s shawl had fallen back, and her plentiful blue-black hair, disarranged by the woollen wrap, curled in picturesque disorder round her face. The Baronet advanced to meet her, and then suddenly stopped. He did not even see Dakin in attendance as his pale face grew paler still, and his dry lips murmured: “Clare!”