Again there was a pause. I knew what that
careless tone meant, and for a time I could not
speak.

"Fortescue," I said at last, "I have one more
thing to ask. Has Sneyd spoken yet?"

"No," answered my friend, rising to lead the
way to the house; "but he is certain to do so
to-day—or to-morrow."

III.

That afternoon, a party, of which Fortescue
and I formed two, went out cover-shooting in
the neighbourhood. I never saw my friend shoot
so ill. Indeed, the poor fellow seemed
entirely bewildered, and unfit for anything. I
think he only joined the party to get away from
the house.

Miss Crawcour did not appear at dinner. She
was suffering from a headache, the duchess said,
and preferred remaining in her room. Lord
Sneyd professed as much interest as would
comport with his languid manner. I could see in
Fortescue's face, carefully as he had drilled it,
how much he suffered additionally at not
spending this, his last evening, in Miss
Crawcour's society.

The next day came, and I was again prevented,
by certain literary labours to which I was
obliged to devote myself, from going out in the
early part of the day. I spent the morning in
my room, which was situated in one of the round
towers which flanked the entrance of the castle,
one on each side.

About half-past eleven I heard the voices of
some of the men who were staying in the castle,
as they lounged about the door, gossiping and
talking. Soon after, I heard the clatter of
horses' hoofs in the distance, and soon the
same sound accompanied by the scattering of
gravel, and the "Wo, mare!" and "Steady
horse!" of the grooms.

I looked out from behind my curtains; I am
always very easily diverted from my work. The
riding party was all assembled. Three or four
men; among them, for a wonder, Lord Sneyd.
He had his own horse, a nasty long-tailed white
brute, that cost, I dare say, a mint of money, and
that no man worth twopence would get across.
The duchess and Miss Crawcour were the ladies
of the party. The duke came to the door to see
them off. He was not going with them, having
all sorts of things to arrange with that important
minister the gamekeeper.

"Where's Fortescue?" said some one.

"Oh, he's not going this morning," the duke
answered. "He is writing letters." He was
helping Miss Crawcour into the saddle as he
spoke. It may have been the exertion of
mounting, or it may not, but I could see that
she blushed deeply.

I did not like the look of the animal on which
Miss Crawcour was mounted. As far as beauty
went, certainly there was nothing to complain of.
A handsomer mare I never saw. But the movements
of the ears were too incessant and violent,
and there was more white to the eye shown than
I like to see in connexion with a riding-habit.
The mare had been difficult to hold while Miss
Crawcour was being lifted on, and, now that the
young lady was fairly on the brute's back, it
became exceedingly restive, almost unmanageable.

"Are you afraid of her at all, Mary?" the
duke asked, as he stood at the door; "she seems
unusually frisky this morning."

"No, not in the least. She's always like this
at starting."

This was Miss Crawcour's answer, but I
thought she looked pale. Perhaps it was the
reaction after that blush I had noticed. The duke
spoke again. This time to the head groom:

"Has that mare been exercised this morning,
Roberts?"

The man hesitated just half a moment, and
looked at the mare.

"Yes, your grace," he said, touching his hat.

"You're sure, Mary," the duchess said, "that
you're not afraid? Do let them take her back
and bring you another mount."

"Yes, yes, much better," added the duke.
"Roberts, send that mare back, and saddle Robin
Hood for Miss Crawcour."

"Beg your pardon, your grace, but the
horse is in physic; he's not been very well for
a day or two."

"Well, then, the brown mare, or Bullfinch,
or——"

"No, no, no, no," Miss Crawcour called from
the saddle. "I like this mare best of all. Let
her go," she said to the groom who was holding
the cursed brute's head. And off she cantered,
the mare plunging and kicking.

"Really," said Lord Sneyd, with his foot in
the stirrup, "Miss Crawcour ought not to be
allowed to ride that ferocious animal. Can nobody
stop her?"

"You ride after her, Sneyd," said the duke,
smiling, "and try if you can't bring her back."
Lord Sneyd was in the saddle by this time, and
cantered off at a regular rocking-horse pace.
His groom behind him on a thorough-bred.

That was the last I saw of the cavalcade.
The duke retired immediately to the gun-room;
and I went back to my writing-table, but I
could not help feeling a certain sense of
uneasiness, the look of that mare not being at all
to my liking, and the manner of the groom
having left an impression on my mind that the
animal had not really been out before, that
morning.

All the events of that day are very fresh in
my memory. The next room to mine was a
boudoir. There was a piano in it, and some
one of the ladies of the party was playing on it.
I don't know what she was playing, though I
should recognise the air now in a moment if I
heard it. It was what is called a "piece," and
had a wonderful plaintive beauty about it. As
the performer played it many times over, I
suppose she was learning it.

I went on writing, and what I wrote seemed
in a sort of way to be mixed up with this tune.
Presently I heard the sound of wheels, and some
light vehicle drove up to the door. I went
again to the window. It was a dog-cart, driven