Middlewich was the country seat of the nobleman to whom the baronet’s cousin, William Heath, was private secretary, and it was to this place that he was now so peremptorily summoned. Lady Linton, in her hiding place, heard her brother read this telegram with a thrill of joy. She was glad of anything that would take him out of London and away from the danger of meeting “that woman,” and she resolved that it should go hard with her if she could not find some way of opposing other barriers before his return. It was a desperate case, and she was prepared for desperate measures. She crept out of her brother’s chamber with a pale, drawn face, saying to herself that Rupert Hamilton should never fulfill his engagement with Virgie Alexander, if there was any power on earth to prevent it; she could never bear the humiliation of it. She packed her brother’s portmanteau with alacrity, and promised to attend faithfully to his various commissions during his absence, and uttered a sigh of relief when the carriage drove from the door, and she knew that he was well on his way to Middlewich. CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. Three days later Lady Linton received a letter from her brother, giving the particulars of his cousin’s accident. He had been riding from Chester to Middlewich, when his horse became frightened at some object by the roadside, and Mr. Heath, not being sufficiently on his guard, had been thrown, suffering the fracture of two ribs, a broken arm, and, it was feared, some internal injury besides. He was in a very critical state at the time of Sir William’s writing, and the latter said he should not think of returning to London until assured that his kinsman was out of danger. “Thank fortune!” Lady Linton breathed, most fervently. “Of course,” she added, a guilty flush rising to her forehead as she suddenly realized how heartless her expression sounded, “of course, I do not mean that I am thankful to have Cousin William suffer such injuries, but I am immeasurably relieved to have my brother called away just at this time, and the longer he stays, the better I shall be pleased.” She heard nothing more for a week, when there came another letter stating that Mr. Heath was slightly improved, but still unable to be moved, and quite a sufferer. There were some more particulars, too, regarding the accident. Lord Norton, an aged friend of the Duke of Falmouth—the nobleman to whom Mr. Heath was private secretary—was very ill, and he had sent for his grace to confide to him a historical work upon which he had been engaged for more than two years. It was nearly completed, only a few more chapters to be copied, and Lord Norton, feeling that he should not live to see it published, desired his friend to take charge of it, finish it, and secure its publication.