He came to her swiftly out of the darkness. But yesterday he had returned from Bukharest and, just as she to-day, had gone to Melbourne Hall to find it shuttered and empty. A good act of his destiny made it known to him at Moretown station that the Lady Evelyn had returned from London. He followed her swiftly and overtook her upon the bridge. And so as in the dream of the unforgotten days he took her from the shadow of the river to his heart and, holding her close, he said: "Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish." [Illustration: "Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish."] EPILOGUE THE DOCTOR DRINKS A TOAST In the Spring of the year following upon Gavin Ord's return from Bukharest, the Reverend Harry Fillimore playing, as he claimed, "the game of his life" upon the links at Moretown, found himself to his chagrin both oblivious of the troubles of others and utterly unsympathetic toward his old friend Doctor Philips. "My dear fellow," he would say, "what can you expect when you will take your eye off the ball? Now do be patient. For my sake, be patient." The doctor, driving his ball with savage ferocity into a deep and awful pit, treated these observations with the just scorn they merited. He neither criticised nor contested them; but having struck the offending ball five times with little result, he picked it up deliberately and uttered a remark which the vulgar at any rate might have considered appropriate. "She's at Gibraltar," he said without preface. "Come, dear fellow--now do be patient. I will not encourage strong language; you know that I will not." Dr. Philips laughed such a melancholy laugh that even the good-natured parson looked up from his beloved ball. "I was talking of the Lady Evelyn," he said quietly. "I'm sorry--I'd forgotten it, Fred." "Oh, well, memory isn't a jewel in these cases. I had a letter from the Earl this morning--eh, yes? He says the yacht's become a nest of turtledoves. They're going on to Malta if the weather's not too hot. He doesn't mean to come here at all this year, you see. That's what I wanted to tell you. It seems that the man Odin went back to Bukharest and is now fighting the Government for his father's property. They confiscated it or something, according to the criminal law there. Pity the gypsies didn't kill him at Hampstead--eh? They seem to have come pretty near it by all accounts." The vicar expressed the opinion that the gypsies were the only honest men that Bukharest would be likely to send to Moretown; but neither spoke of Evelyn again until they were alone with their cigars after dinner that night. Then, as a sacred confidence between them, Harry Fillimore confessed something that had long been on his mind.