Reginald mounted his horse, questioned the ostler respecting the way to the appointed spot on the river-bank, and rode away in the direction indicated. He had no difficulty in discovering the scene of the appointed meeting. The light of the torches in the hands of the searchers guided him to the spot.

Here he found gentlemen and grooms, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback, riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whose lurid glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, all excited.

Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet his cousin, as the other approached.

“Any news, Reginald?” he asked, in a voice that was hoarse with fatigue and excitement.

“None,” answered Sir Reginald: “I have ridden miles, and made many inquiries, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you no tidings?”

“None but evil ones,” replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair “we have found a battered hat on the edge of the river — hat which my brother’s valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear the worst, Reginald — the very worst. All inquiries have been made in the village, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish. My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seems as if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished as utterly as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive.”

“What is it that you fear?”

“We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up, where the stream is swollen to a perilous extent, and that both horse and rider were swept away by the current.”

“In that case both horse and rider must be found — alive or dead.”

“Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily,” answered Douglas; “the bed of the stream is a mass of tangled weeds. I have heard Lionel say that men have been drowned in that river whose bodies have never been discovered.”

“It is horrible!” exclaimed Reginald; “but let us still hope for the best. All this may be needless misery.”

“I fear not, Reginald,” answered Douglas; “my brother Lionel is not a man to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him.”

“I will ride farther along the bank,” said the baronet; “I may hear something.”

“And I will wait here,” replied Douglas, with the dull apathy of despair. “The news of my brother’s death will reach me soon enough.”

Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink, following a group of horsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert to catch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terrible expectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded to hear.

Endless as that interval of expectation and suspense appeared to Douglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold of the winter’s night did not affect him, the burning fever of fear devoured him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering of the torches, as the bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men’s voices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, then another, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as they could in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out, “What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear.”

“Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We’ve found the rector’s hunting-whip.”

“Where?” stammered Douglas.

“Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken. I’m afraid it’s all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he are both gone, sir.”

Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers of the evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collected together. In the midst stood Squire Mordaunt, holding in his hand a heavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen in the rector’s hand only that morning. They all made way for Douglas Dale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on every face.

“This makes it too plain, Douglas,” said Squire Mordaunt, as he handed the whip to the rector’s brother; “bear it as well as you can, my dear fellow. There’s nothing to be done now till daylight.”

“Nothing more?” said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, and groaned in unrestrained anguish; “the drags can surely be used? the —”

“Wait a minute, Sir Reginald,” said the squire, holding up his hand; “of course your impatience is very natural, but it would only defeat itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor Douglas home.”

Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth and common-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectory returned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating to the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted.

Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale’s room. He found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the morning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himself Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.

Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o’clock, and then, starting up with a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproach because he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing by his bed. The good old gentleman took the young man’s hand in silence, and pressed it with a pressure which told all.

They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had been the beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where he had received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while Douglas Dale was contemplating the pale, still features of his brother, with grief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and called Mr. Mordaunt out.

“‘Niagara’ is come home, sir,” said the man. “He were found, just now, on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain’t cut, nor hurt in any way, sir.”

“He’s dirty and wet, I suppose?”

“Well, sir, he’s dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he’s pretty dry, considering.”

“Are the girths broken?”

“No, sir, there’s nothing amiss with them.”

“Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr. Dale at present.”

The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest concern. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of the Grahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and Sir Reginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalities of the inquest and the funeral should be completed.

Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked any exhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task for him to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who had been so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. A few sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, and the girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, who was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marble statue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon her cheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, raging disappointment — almost fury, almost despair.

Douglas Dale could not look at her without seeing that in very truth the event which was so terrible to him was terrible to her also, and his manly heart yearned towards the woman whom he had thought but little of until now; who had perhaps loved, and certainly now was grieving for, his beloved brother.

“Shall we ever meet again, Mr. Dale?” she said, wonderingly.

“Why should we not?”

“You will not be able to endure England, perhaps, after this terrible calamity. You will go abroad. You will seek distraction in change of scene. Men are such travellers now-a-days.”

“I shall not leave England, Miss Graham,” answered Douglas, quietly; “I am a man of the world — I venture to hope that I am also a Christian — and I can nerve myself to endure grief as a Christian and a man of the world should endure it. My brother’s death will make no alteration in the plan of my life. I shall return to London almost immediately.”

“And we may hope to see you in London?”

“Captain Graham and I are members of the same club. We are very likely to meet occasionally.”

“And am I not to see you as well as my brother?” asked Lydia, in a low voice.

“Do you really wish to see me?”

“Can you wonder that I do so — for the sake of old times. We are friends of long standing, remember, Mr. Dale.”

“Yes,” answered Douglas, with marked gravity. “We have known each other for a long time.”

Captain Graham entered the room at this moment.

“The carriage which is to take us to Frimley is ready, Lydia,” he said; “your trunks are all on the roof, and you have only to wish Mr. Dale good-bye.”

“A very sad farewell,” murmured Miss Graham. “I can only trust that we may meet again under happier circumstances.”

“I trust we may,” replied Douglas, earnestly.

Miss Graham was bonneted and cloaked for the journey. She had dressed herself entirely in black, in respectful regard of the melancholy circumstances attending her departure. Nor did she forget that the sombre hue was peculiarly becoming to her. She wore a dress of black silk, a voluminous cloak of black velvet trimmed with sables, and a fashionable bonnet of the same material, with a drooping feather.

Douglas conducted his guests to the carriage, and saw Miss Graham comfortably seated, with her shawls and travelling-bags on the seat opposite.

It was with a glance of mournful tenderness that Miss Graham uttered her final adieu; but there was no responsive glance in the eyes of Douglas Dale. His manner was serious and subdued; but it was a manner not easy to penetrate.

Gordon Graham flung himself back in his seat with a despairing groan.

“Well, Lydia,” he said, “this accident in the hunting-field has been the ruin of all our hopes. I really think you are the most unlucky woman I ever encountered. After angling for something like ten years in the matrimonial fisheries, you were just on the point of landing a valuable fish, and at the last moment your husband that is to be goes and gets drowned during a day’s pleasure.”

“What should you say if this accident, which you think unlucky, should, after all, be a fortunate event for us?” asked Lydia, with significance.

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“How very slow of comprehension you are to-day, Gordon!” exclaimed the lady, impatiently; “Lionel Dale’s income was only five thousand a year — very little, after all, for a woman with my views of life.”

“And with your genius for running into debt,” muttered her brother.

“Do you happen to remember the terms of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s will?” “I should think I do, indeed,” replied the captain; “the will was sufficiently talked about at the time of the baronet’s death.”

“That will left five thousand a year to each of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas. If either should die unmarried, the fortune left to him was to go to the survivor. Lionel Dale’s death doubles Douglas Dale’s income. A husband with ten thousand a year would suit me very well indeed. And why should I not win Douglas as easily as I won Lionel?”

“Because you are not likely to have the same opportunities.”

“I have asked Douglas to visit us in London.”

“An invitation which must be very flattering to him, but which he may or may not accept. However, my dear Lydia, I have the most profound respect for your courage and perseverance; and if you can win a husband with ten thousand a year instead of five, so much the better for you, and so much the better for me, as I shall have a richer brother-in-law to whom to apply when I find myself in difficulties.”

The carriage had reached Frimley by this time. The brother and sister took their places in the coach which was to convey them to London.

Lydia drew down her veil, and settled herself comfortably in a corner of the vehicle, where she slept through the tedium of the journey.

At thirty years of age a woman of Miss Graham’s character is apt to be studiously careful of her beauty; and Lydia felt that she needed much repose after the fever and excitement of her visit to Hallgrove Rectory.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his part well during the few days in which he remained at the rectory. No mourner could have seemed more sincere than he, and everybody agreed that the spendthrift baronet exhibited an unaffected sorrow for his cousin’s fate, which proved him to be a very noble-hearted fellow, in spite of all the dark stories that had been told of his youth.

Before leaving Hallgrove, Reginald took care to make himself thoroughly acquainted with his cousin’s plans for the future. Douglas, with ten thousand a year, was, of course, a more valuable acquaintance than he had been as the possessor of half that income, even if there had been no dark influence ever busy weaving its secret and fatal web.

“You will go back to your old life in London, Douglas, I suppose?” said Sir Reginald. “There you will soonest forget the sad affliction that has befallen you. In the hurrying whirlpool of modern life there is no leisure for sorrow.”

“Yes, I shall come to London,” answered Douglas.

“And you will occupy your old quarters?”

“Decidedly.”

“And we shall see as much of each other as ever — eh, Douglas?” said Sir Reginald. “You must not let poor Lionel’s fate prey upon your mind, you know, my dear fellow; or your health, as well as your spirits, will suffer. You must go down to Hilton House, and mix with the old set again. That sort of thing will cheer you up a little.”

“Yes,” answered Douglas. “I know how far I may rely upon your friendship, Reginald. I shall place myself quite in your hands.”

“My dear fellow, you will not find me unworthy of your confidence.”

“I ought not to find you so, Reginald.”

Sir Reginald looked at his kinsman thoughtfully for a moment, fancying there was some hidden meaning in Douglas Dale’s words. But the tone in which he had uttered them was perfectly careless; and Reginald’s suspicion was dispelled by the frank expression of his face.

Sir Reginald left Hallgrove a few days after the fatal accident in the hunting-field, and went back to his London lodging, which seemed very shabby and comfortless after the luxury of Hallgrove Rectory. He did not care to spend his evenings at Hilton House, for he shrank from hearing Paulina’s complaints about her loneliness and poverty. The London season had not yet begun, and there were few dupes whom the gamester could victimize by those skilful manoeuvres which so often helped him to success. It may be that some of the victims had complained of their losses, and the villa inhabited by the elegant Austrian widow had begun to be known amongst men of fashion as a place to be avoided.

Reginald Eversleigh feared that it must be so, when he found the few young men he met at his club rather disinclined to avail themselves of Madame Durski’s hospitality.

“Have you been to Fulham lately, Caversham?” he asked of a young lordling, who was master of a good many thousands per annum, but not the most talented of mankind.

“Fulham!” exclaimed Lord Caversham; “what’s Fulham? Ah, to be sure, I remember — place by the river — very nice — villas — boat-races, and that kind of thing. Let me see, bishops, and that kind of church-going people live at Fulham, don’t they?”

“I thought you would have remembered one person who lives at Fulham — a very handsome woman, who made a strong impression upon you.”

“Did she — did she, by Jove?” cried the viscount; “and yet, upon my honour, Eversleigh, I can’t remember her. You see, I know so many splendid women; and splendid women are perpetually making an impression upon me — and I am perpetually making an impression upon splendid women. It’s mutual, by Jove, Eversleigh, quite mutual. And pray, who is the lady in question?”

“The beautiful Viennese, Paulina Durski.”

The lordling made a wry face.

“Paulina Durski! Yes, Paulina is a pretty woman,” he murmured, languidly; “a very pretty woman; and you’re right, Eversleigh — she did make a profound impression upon me. But, you see, I found the impression cost me rather too much. Hilton House is the nicest place in the world to visit; but if a fellow finds himself losing two or three hundred every time he crosses the threshold, you can be scarcely surprised if he prefers spending his evenings where he can enjoy himself a little more cheaply. However, perhaps you’ll hardly understand my feelings on this subject, Eversleigh; for if I remember rightly you were always a winner when I played at Madame Durski’s.”

“Was I?” said Sir Reginald, with the air of a man who endeavours to recall circumstances that are almost forgotten.

The lordling was not altogether without knowledge of the world and of his fellow-men, and there had been a certain significance in his speech which had made Eversleigh wince.

“Did I win when you were there?” he asked, carelessly. “Upon my word, I have forgotten all about it.”

“I haven’t,” answered Lord Caversham. “I bled pretty freely on several occasions when you and I played écarté; and I have not forgotten the figures on the cheques I had the pleasure of signing in your favour. No, my dear Eversleigh, although I consider Madame Durski the most charming of women, I don’t feel inclined to go to Hilton House again.”

“Ah!” said Sir Reginald, with a sneer; “there are so few men who have the art of losing with grace. We have no Stavordales now-a-days. The man who could win eleven thousand at a coup, and regret that he was not playing high, since in that case he would have won millions, is an extinct animal.”

“No doubt of it, dear boy; the gentlemanly art of losing placidly is dying out; and I confess that, for my part, I prefer winning,” answered Lord Caversham, coolly.

This brief conversation was a very unpleasant one for Sir Reginald Eversleigh. It told him that his career as a gamester must soon come to a close, or he would find himself a disgraced and branded wretch, avoided and despised by the men he now called his friends.

It was evident that Viscount Caversham suspected that he had been cheated; nor was it likely that he would keep his suspicions secret from the men of his set.

The suspicion once whispered would speedily be repeated by others who had lost money in the saloons of Madame Durski. Hints and whispers would swell into a general cry, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh would find himself tabooed.

The prospect before him looked black as night — a night illumined by one lurid star, and that was the promise of Victor Carrington.

“It is time for me to have done with poverty,” he said to himself. “Lord Caversham’s insolent innuendoes would be silenced if I had ten thousand a year. It is clear that the game is up at Hilton Ho............