“After, sir; oh, some time after. Miss Cranstoun had had time to change into her serge housedress. Indeed, it was just before luncheon, for it was the first luncheon-bell that gave them a fright. You see, sir, it was rather indiscreet, for they stood in the sitting-room quite near the door, which was wide open, so as I couldn’t help seeing them.” “What happened then?” “He said he would write, sir, and then he kissed her again, and she him; and they said good-by. And during luncheon he went away, after giving me orders not to tell any one he had gone until an hour or two had passed, and half a sovereign. And he gave a pound to Margaret, and two letters, one for Lady Cranstoun, and one for Lord Carthew.” “Have they received those letters yet?” “I placed them on the dressing-tables in Lady Cranstoun’s and in Lord Carthew’s rooms, sir. But neither of them went upstairs after lunch until just now to dress for dinner.” “No letter was left for Miss Cranstoun, then?” “Not so far as I know, sir. Directly after lunch Miss Cranstoun went out in the grounds for a short time. Then she came back to her own room, but she wasn’t there at six o’clock, as I found out from her maid, who couldn’t tell me what had become of her.” “Go upstairs and find out quietly if she’s in her room now.” He almost trembled with apprehension during the few minutes of Dakin’s absence. Her news had very seriously disturbed him, coming as it did after Stella’s defiant declaration in the shrubbery that she would never marry Lord Carthew. Her words, taken by themselves, had affected him but little; but in conjunction with the fact that she had had the audacity and the folly to choose a lover for herself, they became very serious indeed. Was it possible that she had already actually eloped with this farmer’s son, whom she had only met for the first time yesterday evening? Was all his cunning concealment of her mother’s humble origin to be wasted if once the wild gypsy blood in her had a chance of asserting itself? Was his name to be disgraced, after the pains he had taken to clear it from all possible taint of his miserable first marriage? That old gypsy hag, when she cursed him before the court-house eighteen years ago, had prophesied that his children should bring disgrace upon his name. Were her words coming true already? The housemaid’s entrance set his fears at rest for the time. “I listened outside the bedroom door, sir,” the woman said, “and Ellen was dressing Miss Cranstoun, and remarking that her serge gown and her boots are wet. So she must have been out walking.” Sir Philip was puzzled. Could the fellow be hanging about the grounds still? he wondered. But if he wished to make love to Stella, why had he, hampered as he was by a wounded limb, already left the shelter of the Chase?