In her pocket Dakin carried a piece of paper upon which a cipher was written, and by the aid of this she dispatched the following message to Sir Philip Cranstoun’s telegraphic address in London: “This evening Stephen Lee shot a trespasser. Wounded man brought to house, also friend. Wounded man called Lord Carthew; friend called Mr. Pritchard. Staying here to be nursed. Have made discovery. Two men have exchanged names. Wounded man is Pritchard, friend Lord Carthew. “Dakin.” While this message was being dispatched to her lord and master in London, Lady Cranstoun was peacefully enjoying her favorite diversion of a game of chess with the doctor. Just after the successful accomplishment of a somewhat difficult move, she remembered that her daughter and Mr. Pritchard were being left altogether in _tête-à-tête_ at the other end of the vast drawing-room. With her fingers nervously touching a bishop, she appealed to her old friend Dr. Graham. “Ought I to leave Stella with a stranger?” she asked doubtfully. “She has hardly ever talked so much to any one before, and Sir Philip would be furious if there was any idea of a sentimental feeling between Stella and this gentleman. You see, from what he says, he has no money, or family, or anything. Sir Philip is so utterly bent upon Stella making a brilliant marriage. Now if it had been his friend, Lord Carthew--” “Make your mind easy, my dear lady,” said the doctor, soothingly. “I don’t think there is much fear of any _tendresse_ between Stella and Mr. Pritchard. A little cheerful society will do her good.” Thus reassured, Lady Cranstoun went on with her game, while Stella naïvely questioned Lord Carthew about his life at Oxford, and he, dropping for the moment his _rôle_ of undistinguished and unintellectual farmer, talked his best to her concerning his way of life and of study at the University. “And Lord Carthew,” she asked softly; “was he a good scholar?” “Not particularly. But there was no man like him for the long jump, or for running either, in spite of his size. At cricket, football, rowing, and swimming, it was the same. He was _facile princeps_. A splendid fellow, isn’t he?” “He is certainly very big. He is not clever, then?” “Well, there are different sorts of cleverness. He doesn’t care very much for reading if there’s a good horse to be had. And by the way, he himself has a beauty--‘Black Bess,’ a long-neck, powerful creature, who carries him as though he were no heavier than a cat.” “Is Lord Carthew revengeful?” she asked presently. “I mean, do you think he will ever forgive me?” “Of course he would, if he had anything to forgive. What makes you dwell upon that idea that he would blame you?” “I heard what he said to you in the wood,” she answered, blushing deeply.