“I understand,” he said, addressing Lord Carthew with an affectation of geniality, “that you are a good chess-player. Dr. Graham here is a great authority on chess, and one of the best players in London. Will you and he have a game while I go with my daughter to see how my wife is now?” His guests could do no less than follow his suggestion, while Stella, her heart beating fast with apprehension, followed her father out of the room. As soon as the door was closed, he turned upon her harshly. “Come to my study,” he said. “I have something to say to you.” CHAPTER XI. AN OLD STORY. In the study, Sir Philip Cranstoun assumed his favorite position, with his back to the fire, and his feet planted firmly on the hearth-rug. Stella stood at a little distance, her hands folded over the back of a tall, carved oak chair. Looking at her under his heavy black eyebrows, her father was instantly reminded of another scene which had taken place in that same house more than eighteen years ago, on the night when Clare Lady Cranstoun first learned of her father’s murder. “I called you in here,” the Baronet began, abruptly, “to speak of your forthcoming marriage.” Stella tightened her lips, and held fast to the back of the chair, but she did not speak. “Your forthcoming marriage,” reiterated Sir Philip, “with my friend, Lord Carthew.” Still no word came from Stella. Her disdainful silence irritated her father. “Carthew is noted for his eccentricity,” he sneered. “Hence, no doubt, his lucky admiration for you. Very few men would have forgiven the exhibition you made of yourself just now over that silly and vulgar song.” The color came faintly into her cheeks, but she still kept silent. Silence was her best weapon against her father, as she knew well. “The marriage will take place early in May,” he proceeded; “so you must make your preparations, and name a date for the ceremony not later than the sixteenth of the month. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” she answered, raising her eyes at length, and steadily meeting his gaze, “I hear you; but I shall not marry Lord Carthew.” “You will marry him,” he said, a dark flush spreading under his pallid skin. “So surely as you stand there you will marry him!” “I shall not!” Her voice rang out now clear and sharp, and into her fair face came a look of dogged resistance, at sight of which Sir Philip’s smouldering wrath broke into a flame.