"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said, rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this morning?" "Yes; I was in the church." "Were you? How glad I am I did not know it," almost involuntarily. There was a little pause; then Vera asked him if he was going to Walpole Lodge. "Eventually; but I have come back here to look for something. My brother has lost a little Russia-leather case; he thinks he may have dropped it in the church; there were two ten-pound notes in it. I am going in to look for it. Why, what is that in your hand? I believe that is the very thing." "I--I--just picked it up," stammered Vera. She began searching in the pockets of the case. "I did not think there was anything in it. Yes, here are the notes, quite safe." She took them out and gave them to him. He held out his hand mechanically for the case also. "Thank you; you have saved me the trouble of looking for it. I will take it back to him at once." But she could not part with her treasure; it was all she had got of him. "The letter-case is very shabby," she said, crimsoning with a painful confusion. "I do not think he can want it at all; it is quite worn out." Sir John looked at her with a slight surprise. "It can be very little use to him. One likes sometimes to have a little remembrance of those--of people--one has known; he would not mind my keeping it, I think. Tell him--tell him I asked for it." The tears were very near her voice; she could scarcely keep them back out of her eyes. John Kynaston dropped his hand, and Vera slipped the little case quickly into her pocket. "Would you mind walking a little way with me, Vera?" he said, gently and very gravely. She drew down her veil, and went with him in silence. They had walked half-way down Wilton Crescent before he spoke to her again; then he turned towards her, and looked at her earnestly and sadly. "Why did you go back again into the church, Vera?" "I wanted to think quietly a little," she murmured. There was another pause. "So _that_ is what parted us!" he exclaimed, with a sudden bitterness, at length. She looked up, startled and pale. "What do you mean?" she stammered. "Oh, child! I see it all now. How blind I have been. Ah, why did you not trust me, love? Why did you fear to tell me your secret? Do you not think that I, who would have laid down my life for you to make you happy, do you not suppose I would have striven to make your path smooth for you?" She could not answer him; the kind words, the tender voice, were too much for her. Her tears fell fast and silently. "Tell me," he said, turning to her almost roughly, "tell me the truth. Has he ill-treated you, this brother of mine, who stole you from me, and then has left you desolate?"