"Serious enough to prevent my marriage," replied Leo; "but what it is I do not feel called upon to explain. It concerns myself and no one else. If you could help me, Marton, I should tell you, but you cannot--no one can. I don't think there is any more to be said." Seeing the young man thus determined, Marton said no more, as he did not wish to force Leo's confidence. The next morning he took his departure, assuring Haverleigh that he was always at his disposal when wanted. "Depend upon it," he said, as he took leave, "you are not yet done with Mrs Gabriel. She will get you into more trouble. When she does, write to that address." "Thank you, Marton; should I require your assistance I will write." The two men parted, Marton to London, and Leo back to the inn. He was very miserable, the more so as he had to avoid the society of Sybil. Knowing what he did, it was impossible for him to talk of love to her. He felt that he had no right to do so--that he was gaining her affections wrongly. Sooner or later he would have to leave her, but he did not wish to break away abruptly. Little by little he hoped to withdraw himself from her presence, and thus the final separation would be more easy. All the next day he wandered alone on the moor, where there was no chance of meeting with Sybil. The morning afterwards he received a note from Mrs Gabriel stating that a certain person had taken his departure, Leo was then in a fever of anxiety lest the person should be captured. However, he learned within twenty-four hours that there was no need to worry. An unsigned telegram came from London, intimating that the sender was in safety, and would communicate with him when the time was ripe. Leo took this to mean that Pratt could not easily get at the papers verifying his story, owing to the vigilance exercised by the police, who were on the look-out for him. Leo therefore possessed his soul in patience until such time as all should be made clear. Meantime, as he told Pratt, he was hoping against hope that the story was not true. Certainly Pratt had spoken in what appeared to be a most truthful way, he had exhibited an emotion he would scarcely have given way to had he been telling a falsehood. But Haverleigh knew what an actor the man was, and, until proof was forthcoming, still cherished a hope that a comedy had been acted for some reason best known to Pratt himself. That is, it was a comedy to Pratt; but to Leo Haverleigh it approached perilously near to tragedy. Afterwards, looking back on the agony of those few days, he wondered that he had not killed himself in sheer despair.