They had arrived at Hedgely Hall two hours before supper; the ladies retired to their rooms to rest, the men to whatever place pleased their fancy. It was a sultry day in May, when the first heat of the coming summer seems doubly warm. Martha Stirling had been sitting by her window, which gave view of the garden and park, idly drumming on the sill, her thoughts of Sir Edward Parkington. She had seen much of him in the last few weeks. She was debating whether it was wise to see so much of him in the future. He was, to be sure, vouched for by Lord Baltimore, which might stand with the Governor and the men, but was not especially in his favor so far as the gentle sex was concerned. Not that there was the slightest ground for suspicion--on the contrary, his conduct had been most circumspect. But was it well to favor him when there were so many who sought her? For, with him at her side, there came a restraint upon the rest, a deference to the stranger of rank. She could not play him off against the others, nor them against him. She had tried it, many times, and always with the same result--failure. He either dominated the situation or else eliminated himself entirely. In either case, he was the victor--and a victor, seemingly, all unconscious of it. The man was tantalizingly fascinating. He could do everything well: fence, dance, play cards, make love, talk sense or nonsense. And with it all, he was handsome as the devil--and might be the devil, for all she knew--or the Governor knew. Why, they did not know even whether or not he was married! She stopped, amazed. So far, as she was aware, no one had ever thought about it,--they had assumed that he was unmarried--and he had let them assume it. Was he a blackguard, or was he a gentleman? She paused, and, in her mind, ran back over the occurrences of the last few weeks. No, blackguard he was not. He had gone as far with her as with any one--farther, doubtless--and, despite a certain gallantry, he had not transgressed beyond the bound, even if he were married--and, surely, a little could be excused a man, travelling alone, in a foreign land. She wondered if Mr. Paca knew, or Mr. Worthington, or George Marbury--or any of their party. She beat a tattoo on the window ledge and reflected.--She would make it her business to ascertain. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to know. Just then she discerned Parkington, himself, emerging from among the trees of the park. He was coming slowly, his head on his breast, his walking stick trailing behind. Presently, he stopped, cast a quick glance toward the house, and, apparently seeing no one, crossed to the shadow of a bush and flung himself on the turf. Instantly, Miss Stirling arose. She was dressed for the evening, but, womanlike, she cast a last look in the mirror, pressed both hands to her hair, took a final dash of perfume, and went down stairs and out. She was going to find out from him.