“The hotel! The idiot! To want to take us back there to face the half-hidden mockery and jokes of all those strangers. Oh, it’s maddening!”

Sir Mark leaned forward, lowered the front window, and shouted to the coachman to drive faster.

“I saw them,” he continued as he flung himself back in his seat, “the whole mob in the church sniggling with delight. Curse them! And that fellow, Stratton! If ever we stand face to face again I’ll—Oh, I hope he will never have the audacity to come near me, for his own sake.”

Myra had been sitting perfectly upright, looking as if suffering from some cataleptic seizure; but at the mention of Stratton she turned and laid her hand upon her father’s arm.

“Oh, yes, of course!” he raged, with a mocking laugh. “Womanlike; a hundred excuses ready for him: cut himself in shaving—wedding clothes not home in time—sprained his ankle—a bad headache. Oh, you women, you women! If ever there were a pack of fools—”

“Father!”

That one word only, but full of so much agony that he turned and caught her to his breast.

“Brute! Senseless brute!” he literally growled. “Thinking of myself, of my own feelings, and not of you, my own.”

Then raging again, with his countenance purple, and the veins of his temples starting:

“But you! To insult you, my child, and after that other horrible affair. How a man—who professed to worship you—could subject you to such an outrage—to such infamy! I tell you it is maddening.”

“Father!” once more in a piteous tone.

“No; you shall not plead for him, my darling. You have behaved nobly. Like a true, self-respecting English lady. No acting, no silly girlish fainting, but like my daughter. You must go on, though. This scoundrel must be shown that he cannot insult you with impunity.”

“Listen, father,” she whispered after a desperate effort to restrain the hysterical burst of agony striving for exit.

“I will not. There is no excuse, Myra. A telegram—a messenger—his friend and best man. Nothing done. The man is—no; he is no man. I’ll—my lawyer shall—no; I’ll go myself. He shall see that—Silence! Be firm. Don’t move a muscle. Take my arm when I hand you out, and not a word till we are in the drawing room.”

For the carriage had stopped, after a rapid course, at Sir Mark’s house in Bourne Square, where they had to wait some minutes before, in response to several draggings at the bell, the door was opened by an elderly housemaid.

“Why was not this door answered? Where is Andrews?” thundered the admiral as the footman came in, looking startled, and closed the door behind which the housemaid stood, looking speechless at her master’s unexpected return.

“Shall the carriage wait, Sir Mark?” interposed the footman.

“No! Stop; don’t open that door. I said, why was this door not answered?”

“I’m very sorry, Sir Mark,” faltered the woman, who was trembling visibly. “I was upstairs cleaning myself.”

“Bah! Where is Andrews? Where are the other servants?”

“They all went to the wedding, Sir Mark.”

“Bah!”

“Father—upstairs—I can bear no more,” whispered Myra.

Brought back to his child’s suffering, the admiral hurried her up to the drawing room and let her sink back on a couch. Then, turning to the bell, he was about to ring for help, but Myra rose.

“No; don’t ring,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m better now.”

At that moment Miss Jerrold’s carriage stopped at the door, and directly after Sir Mark’s sister appeared with Edie, who, looking white and scared, ran at once to her cousin and clung to her, uttering violent sobs.

“Silence, Edie!” thundered the admiral. “Look at your cousin. You must be a woman now. Ah, here you are, then!” he continued fiercely as Percy Guest entered.

“Yes; I came up for a moment before I go on there.”

“I’m glad you’ve come,” cried the old man furiously, and leaping at someone upon whom he could vent his rage. “Now, then, explain, you dog. What does that villain—that scoundrel—mean by insulting me—my child, like this? Damn him! I’ll—”

“Stop, Sir Mark!” cried Guest firmly. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“What?”

“And I will not stand here and have my dear old friend and schoolfellow insulted by such words.”

“Insulted!” cried Sir Mark, with a harsh laugh; “insulted?”

“Yes, sir. Malcolm Stratton is the soul of honour—a gentleman who would have laid down his life sooner than cause pain to the lady he loves with all his heart.”

“God bless you for that, Mr Guest!” cried Myra—catching the young man’s hand as she spoke—in a broken voice, which she fought hard to render calm.

“Bah! Heroics! Come away, Myra. Of course he’ll talk big for his friend. But where is he? Why has he insulted us all like this?”

“Heaven only knows, sir,” said Guest solemnly. “Forgive me for speaking as I do before you, Mrs Barron, but at the cost of alarming you I must take Malcolm’s part. I saw him this morning at his chambers, ready almost to come on. He placed Miss Perrin’s telegram in my hands—about the bouquet—and begged me to see to it at once—to take the flowers to the hotel, and meet him at the church.”

“Yes—yes!” cried Myra eagerly, and her large, dark eyes were dilated strangely.

“I did not pay any heed to it then, for I attributed it to anxiety and nervous excitement.”

“What, Mr Guest?” cried Myra piteously.

“His appearance, Mrs Barron. There was a peculiar wild look in his eyes, and his manner was strange and excited. Some seizure must have been coming on.”

“Yes, yes; it is that,” said Myra hoarsely, and she hurriedly tore off gloves, veil, and ornaments.

“He was quite well last night,” said the admiral scornfully. “It was a trick to get rid of you. I’ll never believe but what it is all some deeply laid plan.”

“You do not know what you are saying, Sir Mark, or I would resent your words. Mrs Barron, I will come back directly I obtain tidings of my poor friend. You know him better than to think ill of him.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Myra, speaking firmly now, but in a low, hurried murmur. “But stop, Mr Guest; stop!”

He turned sharply, for he was already at the door.

“Wait for me—only a few minutes. Edie—quick; help.”

Her cousin flew to her side.

“Myra!” cried the admiral fiercely; “what are you going to do?”

“Change my dress,” she said with unnatural calmness. “Go to him.”

“What?”

“Where should I be but at his side?”

“Impossible, girl! You shall not degrade yourself like this!” cried the admiral; and Miss Jerrold caught her niece’s hands.

“There would be no degradation, Sir Mark,” said Guest firmly; “but, Mrs Barron, you cannot go. For years Malcolm has been like my brother. He had no secrets from me, and I can tell you from my heart that there is but one reason for his absence—a sudden seizure. Don’t keep me, though, pray. Stay here and wait my return. Unless,”—he added quickly, with a deprecating glance at Sir Mark.

“What! I—go with you to hunt up the man and beg him to come? Pshaw!”

“Mark, it is your duty to go,” said his sister sternly. “I don’t believe Mr Stratton would insult us like this.”

“Then for once in my life, madam, I will not do my duty!” cried the admiral furiously. “It is not the only occasion upon which a man has gained the confidence of his friends. It is not the first time I have been so cruelly deceived. I can see it plainly. Either, like a pusillanimous coward, he turned tail, or there is some disgraceful entanglement which holds him back!”

“Father, it is not true!” cried Myra angrily. “How dare you insult me like that?”

“I—insult you?”

“Yes, in the person of the man I love—my husband, but for this terrible mischance. You do not mean it; you are mad with anger, but you will go with Mr Guest at once.”

“Never!” roared the admiral.

“For my sake,” she cried as she flung her arms about his neck and clung to him. “I give up—I will not attempt to go there myself—you are quite right; but,” she murmured now, so that her words were almost inaudible to all but him for whom they were intended, “I love him, dear, and he is in pain and suffering. Go to him; I cannot bear it. Bring him to me, or I shall die.”

The admiral kissed her hastily, and she clung to him for a moment or two longer as he drew a long, deep breath.

“My own dearest father,” she whispered, and she would have sunk at his feet, but he gently placed her in a lounge chair and turned to Guest.

“Now, sir,” he said, as if he were delivering an order from the quarter-deck, “I am at your service.”

Myra sprang from her chair and caught her aunt’s arm, looking wildly in her eyes; and the meaning of the look was grasped.

“Stop a moment, Mark,” she said. “My carriage is waiting. You may want a woman there; I’ll come with you.”

“You?” cried her brother. “Absurd!”

“Not at all,” said the lady firmly. “Mr Guest, take me down to my carriage; I shall come.”

Sir Mark frowned, but said no more; he merely glanced back as Myra now gave up and sank in her cousin’s arms, while, as Miss Jerrold went down, her lips tightened, and she looked wonderfully like her brother, as she said to herself:

“Thank goodness! No man ever wanted to marry me.”

“Benchers’ Inn,” said Guest sharply as the footman closed the carriage door, and the trio sat in silence, each forming a mental picture of that which they were going to see.