"Got news last night that the fellow could not have me: had to go down somewhere or other," he answered, as we walked along arm-in-arm. "I say, I had a bit of a scare just now." "In what way?" "I thought I saw Tom pass. Tom Heriot," he added in a whisper. "Oh, but that's impossible, you know, Lake," I said, though I felt my pulses quicken. "All your fancy." "It was just under that gas-lamp at the corner of Wellington Street," Lake went on. "He was sauntering along as if he had nothing to do, muffled in a coat that looked a mile too big for him, and a red comforter. He lifted his face in passing, and stopped suddenly, as if he had recognised me, and were going to speak; then seemed to think better of it, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had been coming. Charley, if it was not Tom Heriot, I never saw such a likeness as that man bore to him." My lips felt glued. "It could not have been Tom Heriot, Lake. You know Tom is at the antipodes. We will not talk of him, please. Are you coming home with me?" "Yes. I was going on to Barlow's Chambers, but I'll come with you instead." CHAPTER III. AN EVENING VISITOR. The spring flowers were showing themselves, and the may was budding in the hedges. I thought how charming it all looked, as I turned, this Monday afternoon, into Mrs. Brightman's grounds, where laburnums drooped their graceful blossoms, and lilacs filled the air with their perfume; how significantly it all spoke to the heart of renewed life after the gloom of winter, the death and decay of nature. Mrs. Brightman was herself, enjoying the spring-tide. She sat, robed in crape, on a bench amidst the trees, on which the sun was shining. What a refined, proud, handsome face was hers! but pale and somewhat haggard now. No other trace of her recent illness was apparent, except a nervous trembling of the hands. "This is a surprise," she said, holding out one of those hands to me quite cordially. "I thought you had been too busy of late to visit me in the day-time." "Generally I am very busy, but I made time to come to-day. I have something of importance to say to you, Mrs. Brightman. Will you hear me?" She paused to look at me--a searching, doubtful look. Did she fear that I was about to speak to her of her _failing_? The idea occurred to me. "Certainly," she coldly replied. "Business must, of course, be attended to. Would you prefer to go indoors or to sit out here?" "I would rather remain here. I am not often favoured with such a combination of velvet lawn and sunshine and sweet scents." She made room for me beside her. And, with as little circumlocution as possible, I brought out what I wanted--Annabel. When the heart is truly engaged, a man at these moments can only be bashful, especially when he sees it will be an uphill fight; but if the heart has nothing to do with the matter, he can be as cool and suave as though he were merely telling an everyday story. Mrs. Brightman, hearing me to the end, rose haughtily.