The window fastening was removed without sound, the door opened, and he stepped out on to the short grass, with the stars overhead glimmering brightly enough for him to make out the dark patches of leafage trained against the house and the dim panes of the different casements. He did not look in the direction of Dally Watlock's room, or he might have made out a fat little hand holding the blind sufficiently on one side for a pair of dark eyes to watch keenly what was going on. He stepped straight at once for the summer-house, with his heart beating in a low, heavy throb, as he mentally prayed that the words written in that note might be a cruel lie. Only a few moments, and then, feeling as if stricken by some mental blow--angry, jealous of the man who had stolen from him the love of his sister; enraged against the carefully-bred girl, whose life had been passed in the pure atmosphere of a country rectory, and to whose welfare he had devoted himself, to the exclusion of what might be dear to the heart of man. All contended in his heart for mastery, and seemed to suffocate him, as he dimly saw that it was true, and that the girl of refinement, to whom he and Mary had rendered up everything that her life might be smooth and pleasant, was behaving like some miserable drab who had the excuse of knowing no better, of looking at reputation as an intangible something, worthless for such as she. The casement was wide open, pressing back the creepers; and the interior of Leo's room showed like a black, oblong patch. "She may have gone to bed, and left the window open," Hartley whispered. He shook his head, and a terrible sensation of despair beat down upon him. "Poor Horace!" he muttered. "He must know more than I give him credit for. This explains his absence, and the strangeness of his ways." He walked back into the drawing-room, and, without closing the window, went up to where Mary sat, waiting in an agony of suspense. "Oh, Hartley!" she said, as she saw the look of agony in his eyes. "It would be cruel to keep anything from you, Mary, in your helpless state." "Yes, dear; pray--pray, speak!" "It is quite true," he said laconically. Mary's breath, as she drew it hard, sounded like the inspiring of one in agony; and she clasped her brother's hands tightly in hers. "This can't be the first time by many," said Salis wearily. "Mary, dear, I've tried to do all that a brother could for you both, and I've been too weak and indulgent, I'm afraid." "Oh, Hartley, don't talk like that!" cried Mary, with a sob. "My own dear, noble, self-denying brother." "Hush, hush! Mary!" he said sadly; "it has all been wrong, and here is the result!" "What are you going to do, dear?" "I know what I should like to do," he said hoarsely; "go and half kill that scoundrel at the Hall." "Oh, Hartley!"