“Well, you know, miss, of course a man in my position sees and hears a good deal,” he said at last. “Miss Leighton, as she was then—Mrs. Tretheroe, as she is now—was a great beauty, and, to be sure, a good deal run after. There was talk about her and Mr. Guy—they were about together, hunting, racing, and what not. But then—there were others after her.” “What others?” demanded Valencia. “Well, miss, there was Mr. Harborough—that was here tonight,” continued Braxfield. “He seemed very much taken at one time—you were away at your school in those days, miss, or you’d recollect. Yes, there was him—in fact, people used to wonder which it was going to be—Mr. Guy or Mr. Harborough. There were others—several of ’em—but those two were what you might call first and second favourites, to all appearance.” “Then why didn’t she marry one of them?” asked Valencia. “Do you know, Braxfield?” “I don’t, miss—no, I know nothing on that point. All I do know is that all of a sudden, without notice, as it were, both young gentlemen left these parts. Mr. Guy, he went off—very sudden, indeed—and we’ve heard nothing of him till now. Then Mr. John Harborough, off he went too—travelling in foreign countries. And they hadn’t been gone long—not a fortnight, I think—before it was given out that Miss Leighton was going to be married to Colonel Tretheroe. He was in command of his regiment, miss, at Selcaster Barracks. I mind him well enough: a red-faced gentleman.” “Older than herself?” asked Valencia. “Old enough to be her father, miss. But a very wealthy gentleman. They were married here in our church, soon after that, and a bit later the regiment was ordered out to India, and, of course, she went with her husband. Queer, isn’t it, miss,” continued Braxfield, with a shy glance at his young mistress, “that these people which knew each other well in the old days, Mrs. Tretheroe and the two gentlemen, Mr. Guy and Mr. Harborough, should all turn up again—here—about the same time? What they call coincidence—though, to be sure, Mrs. Tretheroe’s been back a month or so. But those other two—both coming here tonight—it gave me quite a turn.” “I suppose it was mere coincidence,” said Valencia. She bade the old man good night and went away upstairs. At the door of her father’s room she met Harry. Sir Anthony, he said, had fallen on a light sleep; the nurse was with him, and there was nothing they could do. They turned off to their own rooms. “Who came to the front door?” whispered Harry as they went along the corridor. “Mrs. Tretheroe,” answered Valencia. “Mrs. Tretheroe! At this time? What did she want?” “Guy!” “Guy? Who told her he was here?” “Her coachman had seen him coming here.” “Well?” asked Harry, after a pause. “What then?” “I told her he’d gone. She went, then. Went in a hurry, too. Harry!” “What?”