Tempted by the beauty of the night they sat, well wrapped up, for it was winter. But the whole firmament was ablaze with stars, and the broad nebulous path of the Milky Way shone forth like the phosphoric trail in the wake of a steamer. The conversation between the two had turned upon the fate of Tom Carhayes. "I suppose we shall soon know now what his end really was," the overseer was saying. "Kafirs are as close as death over matters of that kind while the war is actually going on. But they are sure to talk afterwards, and some of them are bound to know." "Yes. And but for this administration business it might be just as well for us not to know," answered Eustace. "Depend upon it, whatever it is, it will be something more than ghastly, poor fellow. Tom made a great mistake in going to settle in Kafirland at all. He'd have done much better here." "I suppose there isn't the faintest shadow of a chance that he may still be alive, Mr Milne?" The remark was an unfortunate one. Cool-headed as he was, it awoke in Eustace a vague stirring of uneasiness--chiming in, as it did, with the misgivings which would sometimes pass through his own mind. "Not a shadow of a chance, I should say," he replied, after a slight pause. Bentley, too, began to realise that the remark was not a happy one--for of course he could not all this time have been blind to the state of affairs. He felt confused and relapsed into silence--puffing vigorously at his pipe. The silence was broken--broken in a startling manner. A terrified scream fell upon their ears--not very loud, but breathing unmistakable tones of mortal fear. Both men sprang to their feet. "Heavens!" cried the overseer. "That's Mrs Carhayes--" But the other said not a word. In about a half a dozen steps he was through the sitting room and had gained the door which opened out of it. This was Eanswyth's bedroom, whence the terrified cry had proceeded. "What is wrong, Eanswyth?" he cried, tapping at the door. It opened immediately. She stood there wrapped in a long loose dressing gown, the wealth of her splendid hair falling in masses. But her face was white as death, and the large eyes were dilated with such a pitiable expression of fear and distress, as he certainly had never beheld there. "What is it, my darling? What has frightened you so?" he said tenderly, moved to the core by this extraordinary manifestation of pitiable terror. She gave a quick flurried look over her shoulder. Then clutching his hands--and he noticed that hers were trembling and as cold as ice--she gasped: "Eustace--I have seen--him!" "Who--in Heaven's name?" "Tom." "Darling, you must have dreamt it. You have been allowing your thoughts to run too much on the subject and--"