For a moment after he realized the true state of affairs Godfrey was spellbound with terror. Was it just possible that he would be able to head the horse off from the pit? If he could not, then it would be the end of all things as far as Miss Devereux was concerned. With the cold sweat of terror on his brow he watched the girl he loved racing down the slope on the maddened horse. He saw that she was making a brave fight to bring him to a standstill; but even at that distance he could tell that her effort was in vain. A moment later the animal had once more changed his course and had dashed toward a hedge. He scarcely rose at it; as a natural consequence he struck it, toppled over, and then both horse and rider disappeared together. Fearful at what he might find, Godfrey galloped toward the spot, jumped the gate that separated it from the neighbouring field, and looked about him for what he should see. The horse was lying stretched out upon the ground, and one glance was sufficient to show him that its neck was broken. In the dry ditch below the hedge he could catch a glimpse of a black figure. He sprang from his horse and approached it. Lifting her head he supported her in his arms, and as he did so a little sigh escaped from her lips.

“God be thanked, she is still alive!” he muttered to himself, and then he replaced her head upon the bank.

Taking off his coat he made it into a ball. He placed it beneath her head, and then set off in search of water. When he had procured a little in his hat he returned and bathed her forehead and temples with it. After a while she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“I feel better now,” she answered, in reply to his inquiries. “Where is the horse?”

“Close beside you,” he said, and then going to his own animal he took his flask from the holster and filled the little cup with sherry.

“Drink this,” he said. “It will do you good.”

The wine revived her, and in a few minutes she was so far recovered as to be able to sit up and discuss matters with him.

“I am quite well now,” she said. “But how am I to get home? Poor papa! What a state he will be in when he hears! Since my horse is dead I suppose I must try to walk.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Godfrey replied, firmly. “I will lift you into the saddle and you must try and ride my horse. If we can find a village near here, you can remain there until a carriage is sent from the Court to fetch you.”

“As I have proved myself incompetent I suppose I must obey you,” she answered, with a touch of her old spirit. “But what is to be done with my own poor beast?”

“I will arrange about him when I have attended to your comfort,” he said, and then assisted her to rise and lifted her into the saddle. For the first hundred yards or so they walked almost in silence. She was the first to speak.

“Mr. Henderson,” she said, looking down at him, “I owe you an apology. I was rude to you the other day, and I laughed at you when you told me this morning that you did not like my new horse. Events have proved that you were right. Will you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” he answered; “but you can have no idea how nervous I was this morning when I saw how that brute behaved.”

“Why should you have bothered yourself about me?” she asked, not, however, with quite her usual confidence.

Here was the very opportunity he had been looking for so long. He felt that he must take possession of it at once.

“Because I love you,” he answered. “You must have known that I have been in love with you ever since I first saw you, Molly. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I know it,” she replied, looking at him with the love-light shining in her own eyes.

“And your answer, Molly? What can you say to me?”

“Only that I love you too,” she murmured.

I do not know what my spinster readers will think, but the fact remains that the paddock they were crossing was a large one, some twenty acres in extent. It was almost in the centre of this open space that he proposed to her, and she, brazen creature, at his suggestion, I will admit, stooped from her saddle and permitted him to kiss her where all the world might see.

It was between three and four o’clock that afternoon when Godfrey reached home. He had waited at the little village inn until the carriage, which he had sent for to convey her home, arrived from the Court. Then, when he had promised to ride over in the morning in order to interview her father, he watched her drive off and had afterward departed himself to his own abode.

“Well, Godfrey, and what sort of a day have you had?” asked Miss Kitty, as they stood in the drawing-room before the fire.

“Splendid,” he answered. “I was awfully cut up at one time, but on the whole it has been one of the best days in my life.”

“You seem to have enjoyed it. Where did you find?”

“At Churley Spinney,” he answered.

“And you killed at ——?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” was the reply.

“How long did you run?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“You don’t seem to have been very observant. What do you know?”

“I only know that I am engaged to Molly Devereux. For the present that seems to me to be quite sufficient.”

In a moment her arms were round his neck.

“You dear boy, I can not tell you how thankful I am.”

Nor was Mrs. Henderson’s pleasure the less sincere.

To say that Godfrey Henderson was a happy man after his acceptance by Miss Molly would be too mild an expression altogether. It is my opinion that for the next few days he could not have been said to be properly responsible for his actions. He behaved like an amiable lunatic, spent the greater part of his time, when he was not with his fianc??e, planning alterations to a house which was already perfect, and vowed many times a day that he was not nearly good enough for one so angelic. Every one, with the exception of Sir George Penistone, perhaps, was delighted with the match. The worthy old baronet gave his consent immediately almost before it was asked in point of fact, and vowed that the two properties would run splendidly together. A county dinner was given to celebrate the engagement. There were folks who prophesied that the wedding festivities would be on a scale seldom witnessed even by Midlandshire, which as all the world knows, or should know, is the most hospitable county in the three kingdoms. The engagement was to be a very short one, and the happy couple were to leave directly after the marriage ceremony for the South of France.

“You are quite sure that you are not anxious to change your mind?” said Molly to her lover one evening, when they were riding home from hunting. “Remember, there is still time.”

“If it were not so light, and I had not the best of reasons for knowing that old Farmer Giles is behind us, and has his eyes glued upon our backs, I would find a means of making you repent of that speech.” Then he added more seriously: “Darling, whatever may happen in the future, whatever troubles may be in store for us, you will always believe that I love you, will you not?”

“Always,” she answered. “Happen what may, I shall never doubt that. But what makes you suddenly so solemn?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Somebody walking over my grave, I suppose.”

She gave a little cry of pain.

“For pity’s sake don’t talk like that!” she cried. “You have no idea how it hurts me.”

“In that case I will never do so again,” he said. “Forgive me and forget that I said it, dear.” Then to change the conversation, he added: “I expect this will be our last day’s hunting together before we are married. We shall both be too busy to be able to spare the time.”

“I have no idea how I am going to get through all I have to do,” she said. “I shall practically live in shops for the next month, and I do detest shopping. Mamma, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. I fancy she would like to have a wedding to arrange every month in the year. By the way, Godfrey, have you decided who is going to be your best man?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Victor Fensden. He is my oldest friend, and I heard from him only this morning that he will be delighted to officiate in that capacity. He is in Paris just now, but returns to England at the end of the week, when I have invited him to come down here for a few days. I hope you will like him.”

“I am certain to like any friend of yours,” she replied. “I shall be very interested in Mr. Fensden. I came across a volume of his poems the other day. It was very strangely bound and illustrated in an extraordinary manner by himself.”

“That’s his own idea. And did you like the poetry?”

“Well, if I must be candid, and I’m sure you won’t mind, I must confess that I did not understand much of it. It seems so confused. Not a bit like Tennyson, or Keats, or Shelley.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Godfrey. “Fensden is very clever, too clever for me, I’m afraid. One or two literary people rave about his work, I know, but for my part I like less words and a little more human nature. Give me ‘Gunga Din,’ or the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ for my money, and anybody else can have all the nymphs and satyrs, and odes to Bacchus and Pan that were ever crammed into the realms of poetry.”

Loath as I am to say it, such was the infatuation of this girl that she positively agreed with him. Fate, with that characteristic kindness for which it is celebrated, had been good enough to endow them with minds of similar calibre, which, of course, was very desirable, and just as it should be.

On the Wednesday morning following the conversation I have just described Molly and her mother departed for London, where the former was to be handed over to the tender care of Madame Delamaine and her assistants. They were to be away for three days, returning home on the Friday evening, and, as a little compensation for their absence, it was agreed that Godfrey should meet them in town on the Thursday and take them to a theatre.

Accordingly the morning train conveyed him to the Metropolis. He had the pleasure of the vicar’s society on the way up, and the latter, not being restrained by his wife, was able to give him his opinion on matters in general and the immediate stress on politics in particular. In consequence, as Godfrey admitted afterward, he spent two such hours of boredom as he hopes never to experience again. On his arrival in London he drove to his tailors and ordered his wedding garments, going on afterward to a well-known firm of jewellers in Regent Street, from whom he bought a wedding-ring with as much care as he would have given to the purchase of Crown jewels, and a diamond necklace with little more concern than if it had been a pair of gloves. From Regent Street he drove to his club for luncheon. He was late, but that did not matter, for he felt that the morning had been well spent. On entering the dining-room he looked about him for a vacant table. He had chosen one, and was proceeding toward it when a well-known voice behind him said:

“Come and sit here, Godfrey.”

He turned round to find himself face to face with no less a person than Victor Fensden.

“My dear old fellow, this is indeed a surprise,” he said as he shook hands. “I thought you were still in Paris. How long have you been in London?”

“I crossed this morning,” Victor replied. “I am tired of travelling and want to settle down.”

“And you have enjoyed yourself?”

“Fairly well,” Victor replied. “I have met a lot of people whom I hope never to see again, and have tasted, I should say, every example of villainous cookery in Europe. I am thinking of bringing out a new guide book, which I shall name ‘The Tourist’s Vade Mecum’; or, ‘Where not to go in Europe.’”

Considering that it was to Godfrey’s generosity that he owed the long holiday he had been able to take, this was scarcely a grateful speech, but the latter did not comment on it. He was too happy himself and too glad to see his friend once more to take offence. He noticed that in his dress Victor was even more artistic than before. His hair was a shade longer, his tie a trifle larger (he wore it tied in a bow with ends flying loose), and the general tone of his costume a little more pronounced.

“And the future Mrs. Henderson?” he said, airily. “How is she? As you may suppose, I am all anxiety to make her acquaintance.”

“You will do so on Saturday,” Godfrey replied, “for I presume you are coming down to me then?”

“I shall be delighted,” said Fensden. “An English country house will be soothing after the caravansaries I have been domiciled in lately. I never knew how much I detested my brother Briton until I met him in a foreign hotel.”

The sneer on his face as he said this was not pretty to watch.

“And now that you are at home once more, I presume you will resume your old habit of searching the slums for foreign eating houses?” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “Do you remember how and where we met Teresina?”

“Perfectly,” Victor replied shortly, and then changed the conversation by inquiring how long Godfrey intended remaining in town.

“I go back to-morrow morning,” was the other’s reply. “And now that I come to think of it, why shouldn’t you come down with me? It would be just the thing for you. We shall be very pleased to see you if you care to come.”

“Impossible,” the other answered. “I have such a lot to do. I could not possibly manage it before Saturday.”

“Let it be Saturday then,” said Godfrey, with an imperturbable good humour that contrasted very strongly with the other’s peevishness. “There’s a first-rate train which gets you down in time for afternoon tea. I’ll meet you at the station.”

When Godfrey had finished his lunch he paid a visit to his saddler and his bootmaker, and then to fill in the time, inspected the stables of a well-known horse-dealer. He would have liked to go round to Eaton Square where Molly and her mother were staying with an old maiden aunt, but he thought better of it, and contented himself by strolling down Bond Street on the off-chance that he might meet them. He was not successful, however, so he returned to his hotel to dress and dine.

At ten minutes to eight he was to be seen standing in the vestibule of the Lyceum, waiting for the ladies to put in an appearance. When their carriage drove up he hastened forward to greet them, and conducted them forthwith to the box he had engaged. Nothing that could tend to their comfort had been omitted by this extravagant young man, and he found his reward in the tender little squeeze Molly gave his hand when he removed her cloak. During the evening he did not concern himself very much with the play; he watched his future wife’s pretty face and the expressions that played upon it. As soon as they were married he was determined to paint a life-size portrait of her, which he prophesied to himself would be the best piece of work he had ever accomplished. But even the happiest evenings must come to an end, and this particular one was no exception to the rule. When the curtain fell on the last act, he re-cloaked his two charges, and escorted them downstairs once more. Then, bidding them wait in the vestibule, he himself went out in search of their carriage. When he had placed them in it, he bade them good-night, and came very near being knocked over by a hansom as he watched them disappear in the traffic.

The night was bitterly cold, and snow was falling. Reflecting that it would be wiser not to stand still, he turned up the collar of his coat, and wondered what he should do next. Should he go back to his hotel and to bed, or should he stroll on to his club and see who was there? He eventually decided in favour of the hotel, and accordingly set off along the Strand in the hope that he might presently be able to pick up a cab.

He had reached Exeter Hall, when, with a cry of astonishment, he found himself standing face to face with the one person of all others he had least expected to see in England. It was Teresina!

“Teresina!” he ejaculated, in surprise. “What on earth does this mean? How long have you been in England?”

“Nearly a month,” she answered, looking away as if she desired to avoid his eyes.

“And why did you not let me know that you were coming?” he asked, reproachfully. “You must surely remember that you promised to do so?”

“I did not like to trouble you,” she replied, still in the same curiously hard voice. “You were not in London, and I thought you would be too busy to have time to spare for me.”

“You know that is not true,” he answered. “I should be a mean brute if I did not find time to look after my friends. Where are you living? In the old house?”

She paused for a moment before she replied. He noticed her embarrassment, but did not put the right construction upon it.

“Near the Tottenham Court Road,” she said at last. “I don’t think you would know the street if I told you.”

“And your mother, how is she?”

He saw the look of pain which spread over her face, and noticed that her eyes filled with tears.

“My mother is dead!” she answered, very quietly. “She died in Naples two months ago.”

“And you are alone in the world? My poor child! This will never do. You must let me help you if I can.”

“No, no!” she cried, this time almost fiercely. “I do not require any help. I can support myself quite well.”

“I shall have to be convinced of that before I let you go,” he answered. “London is not the sort of place for a young girl to be alone in, particularly when one is a foreigner and poor.”

“You were always kind to me,” she replied, “but I can not let you do more. Besides you are going to be married. Is that not so?”

“It is quite true,” he answered; “but how did you hear of it?”

She looked confused for a moment.

“I can not tell you,” she replied. “Perhaps I saw it in the newspapers. You are famous, and they write about you. Now I must be getting home.”

An empty cab happened to pass at that moment, and Godfrey hailed it.

“Get in,” he said, when the vehicle had drawn up beside the pavement. “I am going to see you home. This is not the hour for you to be alone in the streets.”

“No, no,” she protested, even more vehemently than before. “I can not let you do this. I can walk quite well. It is not far, and I have often done it.”

“Teresina, you must do as I tell you,” said Godfrey, firmly. “I insist that you get in and that you give me your address.”

She hesitated for a moment before she replied. Then she said:

“No. 16, Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road.”

Having given the address to the driver, Godfrey took his place beside the girl. He was thankful, indeed, that he had met her, but the circumstances under which he had found her distressed him more than he was able to say. As they drove along he endeavoured to elicit some information from her concerning her present life. She was not communicative, however. That there was some mystery at the back of it all, he could see, and the more he thought of it, the more unhappy he became. Poor little Teresina! He remembered her as she was when she had first sat to him for the picture which had made his name; and as he looked out upon the falling snow and the miserable streets with the dark figures scurrying along the pavement on either hand, and thought of her future, his heart sank within him. He wondered whether he could persuade her to accept a sufficient sum of money from him to enable her to return to her own country and to live in comfort there? He was rich, and after all it was not only his duty but his pleasure to help an old friend. As she seemed so distressed at meeting him, he resolved to say nothing on the subject then, however; nevertheless, he was determined in his own mind that he would write to her on the morrow and make the offer, whether she accepted it or not. At last they came to a part of the Strand which was more brilliantly illuminated than elsewhere. As they came within the circle of the light, Teresina put up her hand to push back her hair, and Godfrey noticed that she wore a wedding-ring upon her third finger. This gave him food for reflection.

“Teresina,” he said, “why did you not tell me that you were married? I thought you said you were alone in the world.”

“My husband is dead,” she answered, with what was almost a note of despair in her voice.

“Your husband dead, and your mother dead too?” he repeated, almost incredulously. “Teresina, my dear child, are you telling me the truth?”

“Why should you doubt me?” she cried. “You have no reason for doing so.”

“Because I feel that you are hiding something from me,” he said. “Is it any use my imploring you to confide in me? You know that I am your friend, and that I would help you to the best of my ability.”

“I know you would,” she answered. “You were always a good and kind friend to me. All I ask of you now, however, is to leave me alone. I am unhappy enough as it is. Do not seek to add to my misery.”

“Heaven knows I have no desire to do that,” said Godfrey. “But if you think I am going to leave you, as you are now, you are much mistaken. If you would only be brave and tell me everything, it might simplify matters.”

“Impossible,” she cried. “Have I not told you there is nothing to tell? Oh, why did I not go another way home!”

“Because it was to be,” he answered. “You were in trouble, Providence sent me to help you. Believe me, that is the explanation.”

A few moments later the cab turned from the Tottenham Court Road into a narrower and darker street. Half — way down this dingy thoroughfare it came to a standstill — before a house on the right-hand side. It was by no means a cheerful dwelling, and at that hour it was wrapped in complete darkness. They descended from the cab, and Godfrey, who had no desire that the cabman should overhear his conversation with Teresina, paid him off with a liberal largesse, and allowed him to go on his way rejoicing.

“Is it any use my again asking you to tell me your trouble?” he said to the girl beside him, when the vehicle had disappeared and a policeman had passed, after taking a long survey of them.

“Not in the least,” she answered. “Please do not ask me.”

“In that case, will you make me a promise, Teresina? If you will do so, I will ask no further questions for the present.”

“What is it I am to promise?”

“That you will not leave this house without first letting me know whither you are going?”

“I will do that,” she answered. “I will let you know when I leave this house.”

“Here is my card then. You had better take care of it. A letter or telegram will always find me. And now good-night, my poor girl. Remember, I am your friend.”

“Good-night, and may God bless you.”

So saying, she disappeared into the house, while he, in his turn, after taking the bearing of the house, in case he should want to find it again, set off in the opposite direction to that by which he had entered the street.

Meanwhile Teresina, choking down her sobs, climbed the stairs to the room she occupied in that ramshackle tenement. Unlocking the door, she entered and started to cross the floor in search of a box of matches she remembered having left upon the chimney-piece. She had not advanced more than three steps, however, before she was seized by the throat from behind, while at the same time a keen-bladed knife was driven, as far as the handle, between her shoulders, only to be withdrawn and thrust in again and again, until she fell with a little gasp upon the floor.

When her assassin had made sure that she was dead, he lit the gas and knelt beside her for a few minutes. Then he rose, placed something in a box upon the table, turned off the gas once more, picked up the box, and went out, relocking the door behind him.