“Myra! My own darling!” sobbed Edie.

“Hush! No, I must talk. If I think in silence I shall go mad.”

“O Myra, Myra, are you never to be really married after all?”

The bride made a hurried motion with her hands, then pressed them to her temples and thrust back her hair.

“It makes me think of two years ago, dear,” whispered Edie, “and all the horrors of that day.”

“Yes; is it fate?” said Myra hoarsely as she sat gazing at vacancy.

“But I’ll never believe that Malcolm Stratton could do wrong,” whispered Edie, caressing and trying to soothe the sufferer as she clung to her side. “It couldn’t have been that this time, or else Percy would not be such friends.”

Myra bent forward with her eyes dilated as if she were gazing at something across the room.

“Your poor hands are so cold and damp, and your forehead burning hot. O Myra, Myra! I did not think that two such terrible days could come in one poor girl’s life.”

“Edie,” said Myra in a husky whisper, “you saw Malcolm last night?”

“Yes, dear, of course.”

“You did not see anything strange in his manner?”

“No; only that he was half-mad with joy, and when he kissed me and said good-night—you remember?”

“Yes, yes.”

“He said he was the happiest man alive.”

“Yes; I remember the exact words.”

“And he hoped that soon—”

Edie stopped with a faint flush in her cheeks.

Myra nodded quickly, but without ceasing to gaze straight away into vacancy.

“But there was nothing strange—he was quite well—he said nothing else to you?”

“No, dear; nothing that I can recall.”

“Are you sure he dropped no hint? Nothing that could make you think he did not wish to marry me?”

“No, no, no, dear. He was longing to call you his very own. He said so—to me. But don’t look like that, darling; you frighten me. What are you thinking?”

Myra was silent, and her aspect was so strange that Edie shook her excitedly.

“Myra, darling—don’t!” she cried.

“I was thinking was it possible that, after all, he could repent,” said Myra in low, measured tones. “Whether, knowing all, he shrank from me at the moment when a few words would have made it irrevocable.”

“But why—why, darling?” cried Edie in alarm.

“You cannot grasp it as he would. I—married, and under such circumstances. Love is blind, Edie, and he, poor fellow, may have been blinded in his love—his old love for me. But what if the veil dropped away from his eyes at last, and he could not, he dared not face it—the sacrifice for him! Edie, it was that, and I forgive him, for I loved him with all my heart.”

Startled by her cousin’s looks and words, Edie now caught her hands and stood over her, speaking impetuously, almost angrily.

“For shame!” she cried. “Malcolm Stratton would never have acted like that. O Myra; how could you think it of him? So manly and open and frank in everything. Oh, no, no, no; it could not be that.”

Myra turned to her quickly and clung to the hands which grasped hers, as if sinking in her despair, and clutching at one more chance for life.

“Say—say that again,” she whispered huskily.

“I’ll say it a hundred times, but there is no need. Malcolm could not treat you like this of his own freewill. He must be—he is ill, and that is all.”

“If I could only think so,” said Myra as if to herself. “If I could only believe it was that; but no, no,” she wailed now, breaking down utterly, and snatching away her hands to cover her convulsed face; “the truth has been too strong at last, and he has gone.”

“Myra!” cried Edie. “Hush! You shall not give way like this. How can you be so weak? It is madness. If he had treated you so shamefully, and turned away, you could not—you should not, take it to heart. Where is your woman’s pride? To give way, believing such an infamy, is dreadful. But I tell you it isn’t—it can’t be true. There, there, be calm, my darling. Be patient till they come back. He has studied too hard lately—that’s it. I’ve noticed how pale and worried he looked at times, and with this excitement—you heard what Percy said—he has broken down. There, that’s the truth. He’s ill, and will soon be better, and all will come right, Myra! my darling coz. Don’t turn like that. Oh—help! help! help!”

She thrust her cousin back so that her head rested on the lounge, for a deathly look had come over the beautiful face, the eyes were half-closed, sending a chill of horror through the startled girl, who now tore frantically at the bell.

“A doctor—they must fetch a doctor. No; Percy must come back to tell her the simple truth, for I am right: Malcolm Stratton could not treat her as she thinks.”

And Percy Guest was on the way to put it to the test.

For some little distance not a word was spoken in the carriage, each of its occupants being full of his or her own thoughts.

Miss Jerrold was the first to break the silence. For, as she sat there stern and uncompromising, thinking of the duty she had voluntarily undertaken in answer to the appeal in her niece’s eyes, which plainly asked that she would stand between father and lover in any encounter which might take place, she noted that she was still holding the bouquet of exotics she had borne to the church.

A look of annoyance and disgust crossed her face.

“Here, Mr Guest,” she said sharply; “let down the window and throw these stupid flowers away.”

Guest started, and hesitated about taking the bouquet, but it was pressed into his hand, and he was about to lower the window when the lady interposed.

“No; it would be waste,” she cried. “Wait till we see some poor flower girl, and give it to her.”

The window on her right was let down sharply; then the flowers were snatched from her hand, and thrown out into the road by Sir Mark, who dragged the window up again with an angry frown.

“As you please, Mark,” said the lady quietly; “but the flowers might have been worth shillings to some poor soul.”

Silence reigned once more as the wheels spun round. Oxford Street was reached and crossed, the coachman turning down into and across Grosvenor Square, and then in and out, avoiding the main streets, till the last, when the busy thoroughfare was reached near its eastern end, and the carriage was drawn up at the narrow, court-like entrance to the quiet, secluded inn.

Heads were turned directly, among those whose attention was taken being a barrister in wig and gown, just on his way to the court, where Mr Justice Blank was giving his attention to a divorce case.

Miss Jerrold saw the legal gentleman’s smile, and guessed its meaning.

“How stupid!” she muttered. Then, as the footman came to the door: “Edward,” she whispered hurriedly, “take that stupid satin bow from your breast. Tell Johnson, too.”

The favour disappeared as the door was thrown open, and Sir Mark sprang out to go straight on toward the inn; then, recollecting himself, he turned to help his sister alight.

But he was too late. Percy Guest had performed that duty, and the lady took his arm and followed the admiral on into the calm silence of the old inn, past the porter’s lodge, unnoticed by its occupant; then on across the square, under its shady plane trees, toward the fine old red brick mansion in the corner, with its iron lamp support and curious old link extinguishers on either side.

The place was utterly deserted, and so still that the creaking of the admiral’s new boots sounded loud and strange, while as they mounted the worn steps and entered the gloomy hall of the old place it struck chilly and damp, while the great stone staircase had a look that seemed forbidding and strange.

“You have brought us here,” said Sir Mark, stopping short at the foot of the stairs. “Go first.”

He gave place to Guest, who led Miss Jerrold on and up the two flights to the broad landing, upon which the doors of Brettison’s and Stratton’s chambers opened.

“One moment while I get my breath,” panted Miss Jerrold; “I’m not so young as I used to be, Mr Guest.”

The admiral frowned, and stood scowling at the legend on the door, but it seemed cold and blank now, for there was no ray of sunshine to make the letters stand out clear. All looked murky and grim, and the utter silence of the place was impressive as that of a tomb.

As they stood there on the landing Guest hesitated for a moment or two, an undefinable feeling of dread having attacked him; there was a curious ringing in the ears, and his heart beat with a heavy throb.

He was brought back to his duty by the cold, stern voice of the admiral.

“Well, Mr Guest,” he said again with a cold formality of tone, “you have brought us here,”—and he waved his hand toward the door.

Guest sprang forward, knocked sharply, and stood back to wait, while Miss Jerrold drew a long, hissing breath, perfectly audible in the silence.

There was no response, and the chirping of the inn sparrows came painfully loud through an open window somewhere above.

“What a dismal place for a man to choose,” muttered Miss Jerrold. “Had you not better knock again?”

Guest repeated the summons, and the admiral leaned forward, listening attentively.

Still there was no reply; and, growing agitated now, Guest once more knocked loudly, with the repetition of the knocker, telling plainly of the trembling hand of him who raised it and let it fall.

He drew back, to stand listening intently till Miss Jerrold spoke.

“He must be out,” said the lady quietly. “Knock again, Mr Guest.”

The knocker once more raised the echoes of the weird-looking old staircase, and then died out above with a peculiar whisper, while Guest’s heart sank within his breast as a dozen fancies now took possession of him, and horror prevailed.

“We cannot stay here,” said Miss Jerrold. “Mr Guest, will you see me to my carriage again? Mr Stratton must be out. Gone to Bourne Square, and we have passed him on the way.”

“No!” thundered the admiral; “he is within there, hiding, like the cur he is, and afraid to face me!”

Guest turned upon him angrily.

“Come away, sister,” growled the old man; “I am right.”

“No, sir; I swear you are wrong,” cried Guest.

“What? Why, I saw the change in your face, man, when I heard a rustling noise in there. You heard it too. Deny it if you can.”

Guest was silent for a moment, and he stood with his eyes fixed upon the letter-box, as if expecting to see the cover of the slit move.

“I am not going to deny it, sir; I did hear a sound,” he said. “If he is here he shall come out and face you, and tell the truth and reason of his absence. It is illness, I am sure.”

As he spoke he once more seized the knocker and beat out a heavy roulade.

But still there was no reply, and, taking his sister’s hand, the admiral drew it through his arm.

“Illness?” he said in a low growl. “Yes, the shivering fit of a coward or a cur.”

“It is not true!” cried Guest excitedly as a thought flashed across his brain. “I remember now: he had a heavy sum of money on the table when I was here, and—Great Heavens! is it that?”

His manner was contagious, and his face conveyed his terrible thoughts to his companions.

Miss Jerrold clung to her brother, and turned ghastly pale, while a look of horror contracted the old man’s face.

“You—you don’t think—” he stammered.

“I think the worst, or my poor friend would have been with us.”

“Man—for God’s sake don’t say that,” gasped the admiral, as Guest stepped back to the full extent of the landing.

“There is some mystery here.”

“Stop! What are you going to do?” cried Sir Mark, catching at his arm.

“Stand aside, sir; I am going to burst open that door.”