creature giving himself? He might serve as escort, he might serve as fetch and carry; best of all he might serve as spur of defiance to Wroth, but as for anything else, he must be taught his place.

'I'd be obleeged,' said Miss Beljoy presently, and now in elegant mincing tones, if you will hand me my glass, Mr. MartindaleI think the liquor is sufficiently cool. Dear me

The languid ejaculation expired on her lips: the door at the far end of the room had opened, and Wroth, closing it quietly behind him, was advancing towards them. The couple by the fire gaped in the silence of utter astonishment, Martindale still foolishly holding his wrapped glass, Peggie collecting her wits with all speed for the contradictory situations she might be called upon to face; ready to laugh, as jolly Peg, at the trick she had played on my lord and them all, or as Lady Wroth, the party first injured in an equivocal transaction, to take her proper stand of reproachful dignity. As Wroth advanced she marked his smile.

'He knows,' thought Peggie, and gave herself all to the first rule, in swift disappointment; the other game would have been so much more amusing.

Then his eye fell upon her and all at once she was frightened, and wished herself miles away. Her intuitions, being feminine, were quicker than those of her companion. Mr. Martindale's air of consternation had vanished; here was Wroth, cool as a cucumber, all smiles. And, hang it, was he not doing Wroth a good turn?

'Capital, dear fellow, capital!' he cried boisterously. 'Come after us to give us "speed"? Gad, but it's just like you! We'll have a fresh bowl up-why not supper all three together, eh, Peg? Eh, George? You always liked to be original: you'll break your record this time!"

'You forget,' said Peggie, thinly goaded by the very sharpness of her fear into the extreme of audacity, 'that Lord Wroth can endure all other company except that of a—wife.'

‘But when he knows that he's already free of her?' said Martindale, still rollicking.

He swallowed his reeking draught, nodded at the girl over his glass, slammed it on the table, and blew a kiss at her. Then he turned his flushed face, claiming his boon companion's applause. His eye became fixed, his jaw dropped. That little polished mahogany box hanging by its silver handle on two of Wroth's fingers he knew it well enough. What the devil was the madman doing with it here?

Wroth read his thoughts like a printed page. printed page. He glanced down at the case, swung it on the table and was shaken with his short harsh laugh, the laugh that never boded good. The white fury that possessed him seemed to flicker about his face like a dancing flame as he turned again the glitter of his eyes from one to the other.

Martindale, his friend, and the creature who could now call herself Lady Wroth! And he, already hailed, by the Scaifes and the Holroyds, as their accomplice! He pushed the catch of his case and raised the lid. At that moment he was no more responsible for his actions than the madman Martindale deemed him. He had killed Martindale in his thoughts, before his finger touched his loaded pistol. But something-perhaps Peggie's piercing scream, perhaps her comrade's abject movement of fear, perhaps the familiar touch of the grip under his hand-brought him in time to a realisation of the chasm before him.

He replaced the weapon on the table, still uncocked, and stood a second, his gaze dilated, breathing quickly, looking on the vision of the fatal deed which he had all but done.

'Oh, mercy, mercy!' gasped Peggie. She tried to scream again, yet as in a nightmare could scarce bring forth a whisper; fighting against the faintness that was creeping over her, she wanted to cry out the truth, since this joke of hers was bringing such dire consequence. But the words refused themselves to her thoughts.

'Good Lord, George!' ejaculated Martindale, from dry lips. Ring the bell, woman! Dash it, ring, I say, Peg! It's your side, you fool! We shall be murdered!

Wroth stirred from his abstraction.

'Oh, no, not murder,' he said tonelessly. gentlemen, for we are gentlemen, are we not? satisfaction, Martindale, I suppose?'

An affair between You'll not deny me

Though his voice was dully emotionless, there was twitching of indescribable irony about his lips.

The present is the best of all times. You never were much good at more than ten paces. Why not the length of the room between us? Come, choose your pistol, man. I'm in a hurry.

Let us be done with it!'

But Martindale, rolling an anguished eye upon the speaker, crawling as if the mere change of position across the hearthrug must attract the bullet, was already extending a palsied hand towards the bell-rope.

A sudden nausea seized Wroth. What was he, lion, doing among these jackals? How could he, eagle, stoop to those jays? A vision of Juliana's face arose before him, a vision of purple, deep eyes, sorrowful in scorn. And, as if by the light of that gaze, he saw the irrevocable gulf that separated his own soul from that of those with whom he had chosen to consort. As upon a huge gathering wave, he felt himself seized and lifted back to the rock where he belonged. Disgust was upon him as he looked down. 'You need not ring,' he cried peremptorily. 'I'll let you off. I'll cry quits, now and for ever. I've had my revenge. Faugh, you're not even worth shooting, Martindale! Stay-there's a condition-you and my lady there must separate.'

Martindale made a hasty step forward. Wroth flung up his hand : 'You need make no promise,' he cried contemptuously. "You dare not do anything but leave her, now. As for you, my lady, I make no apologies for interfering, even after our bargain. The world is wide; remember not to let your favour fall upon any of those who have broken bread with me. I give you credit for better taste in the future: you see the stuff they are made of.'

There was sharp warning under the mockery of his tone. The pistol case clicked. Wroth clapped it under his arm and turned to the door. A moment he halted on the threshold, looked back at them, as if from some great distance, then went out.

The two left alone stared at each other; anger, but anger of different moods was in the eyes of both. Then Martindale hastily helped himself to the remnants of the bowl and drank at a gulp. Some of his jauntiness returned to him as he flipped the moisture from his lips with his fine handkerchief.

'Well, Peg, what a scene! Aha! Why, I declare, you're scared to death. Come, now, pull yourself together, girl.'

He hemmed, drew a deep breath, and tried to assume an air at once superior and generous. Not that I care for the dear fellow's threats. It is obvious that all this business has been too much for him. But you can trust me. I would not, for worlds, place you in an awkward position. Rather than cause difficulties' He hemmed again. He hemmed again. A graceful exit seemed difficult. Peggie, her hands on the arm of her chair, sat staring at him, strangely still.

'You wish me to go, I see,' he cried, catching at a pretext, with the suddenness of a trout at a fly. Still the dumb staring of the pale green eyes.

'Come, then,' said the gallant. A wink is as good as a nod to me. I'm going. Good-bye, my dear' He hesitated. Something was wanting to give conviction and dash to his new rôle. A defiance to Wroth that could involve no risk. Come, Peg-a kiss before parting.'

He came towards her. She flung up her hand; all fierce energy now, out of her stony abstraction.

'Off with you-I hate the sight of you! I don't know how I could ever have looked at you. Kiss you? And I his wife! Ah, he can't help that now. I am his wife

The sense of the huge lie, the hopelessness of her own position, overcame the girl, even as she spoke the word. She saw again before her the vision of Wroth, scorning. Only some hours ago she had pleaded for her chance; 'I like him, I do like him!' she had cried. And her chance had been wrenched from her. And now she knew it was no mere liking. Love? She had never loved in her life before. Was it love?

Now the dry heart was seized with misery. This was love; how uncomfortable it was! She crouched down, burying her face in her hands and broke into furious sobs.

Martindale slipped out noiselessly.

CHAPTER XVI.

WROTH drove back towards the Wells, at a slow, steady trot, absorbed in his thoughts and allowing the tired horses their own pace.

At first, chief in his mind was wide sweeping resolve: he was done with it, done with that old life, done with these boon companions, these gamblers, drunkards, panderers, sycophants—aye, and traitors! It was hardly so much a decision as an accomplished fact within himself. And next the manner of its accomplishment began to shape itself in a hundred busy plans. The price of his folly was in a way his release; material means for his complete freedom could not now fail him. He would purge his house and his stables. That old devil, Minchin, must be set at once to pay off all debts. The Abbey, empty of its unworthy crew, should be left in the guardianship of Bertram. . . . Aye, faithful old fellow, he should have the satisfaction of feeling peace as well as plenty about him again.

And, since his money-bags were to be so deep, why should he not now plunge deep into them? He would have the desecrated church restored-by the Lord, he would! One day, he meant to bring Juliana back there: how and when he knew not-he was still in the whirlwind of circumstances-but he knew that, henceforth, this would be the goal of his life. There was nothing else in the world for him.

He had once more reached the downs; the sun had dropped behind low-lying clouds; after the rain, through the cooling airs, the mists were rising; with the twilight hour the wind had fallen; it was a dull grey world that held him. Wroth suddenly gathered up the reins with the old fierce grip. The horses sprang; it needed no stroke of whip to make them feel afresh the frenzy of impatience that urged.

Juliana was at the Wells yonder, and here was he on the downs, miles from her! What blasting folly of anger and pride had come to him that, having found her again, he had let her go out of his. sight? What, he had had his arms about her, and had not held her! Because of that look in her eyes he had gone from her. Oh, then, when he was back again beside her he would close his own eyes to that look. Once they had kissed, he knew it in every fibre of his being, she could never put him from her again. Then, gradually, the current of his passion took a gentler turn. Nay, no woman had ever been wooed as she should be. So gently would he lay siege to this fair fortress, that she should scarce know the moment of her surrender.

The high curricle swayed again as they spun along the darkening roads. The over-driven horses had taken to a gallop. Crouching cottages, with glimmers as of yellow eyes, seemed to dart past them. There were curses and outcry in the village, where knots of labourers scattered and flattened themselves against palings to let the flying danger pass. At last! Down the broader road into the Wells! The sense of the goal near-reached added a fresh stimulus to the reckless pace.

The same whirlwind that had taken him away seemed to have brought him back. When he drew up before the door of the Crown, there was a dash among the idlers from the bar room, to stare at Mad Wroth returning from his mad chase; and wide were the conjectures that flew from lip to lip at sight of his white face and the reeking horses.

'He's killed them both-that's what he's done! We shall have work at Maidstone 'Sizes,' was the most popular conclusion.