It was Aubrey who was the first to speak. The carillon stopped, or else they got used to the sound and took no further notice of it, and he collected himself and came forward again to the middle of the room. He said, “I know it will be a relief that I should go away. There is an afternoon train which I shall take. It is slow, but it does not matter. I shall be as well there as anywhere--or as ill. I shall go direct to Colonel Kingsward and lay my whole case before him. He will perhaps confront me with my accuser--I hope so--if not, he will at least hear what I have to say for myself.” “Oh, Mr. Leigh! Oh, Aubrey! I can’t wish you anything but well, whatever--whatever may be done!” “Thank you, Mrs. Kingsward, I looked for nothing less from your kind heart. Will you give me that letter?” She put it into his hands without the least hesitation, and he examined it--with a sort of strained smile upon his face. “I should like to take this back to Colonel Kingsward,” he said. Then added quickly with a short laugh, “No, I forgot; there might be suspicions. Send it back to him, please, by the first post, that he may have it when I get there.” He gave the letter back, and then he looked round wistfully. “May I say good-bye to Bee?” She got up at the words, feeling herself vaguely called upon--yet quite dull, dumb, with all sorts of thoughts going and coming through those wide-open doors of her mind--thoughts like strays which she seemed to see as they passed. Even Aubrey himself appeared a ghost. She got up and stood awaiting him when he approached her, not putting out a finger. Nobody interfered, not even Charlie, who was fuming internally yet somehow did not move. Aubrey went up to her and put his hands upon her shoulders. Her unresponsiveness sent a chill to his heart. “Have you given me up, Bee?” he cried, “Already, already!” with anguish in his voice. She could not say a word. She shook her head like a mute, looking at him with her dazed eyes. “She does not understand it--not a word!” he said. Bee shook her head again. It was all she could do. No, she did not understand, except that it was a kind of dying, something against which nobody could struggle. And then he kissed her on her forehead as gravely as though he had been her father; and the next moment was gone--was it only out of the room, or out of the world, out of life? CHAPTER VIII.