Mr. Montague Nevitt rubbed his hands with delight in the sacred privacy of his own apartment. Mr. Nevitt, indeed, had laid his plans deep. He had everybody’s secrets all round in his hands, and he meant to make everybody pay dear in the end for his information.

Mr. Nevitt was free. His holidays were on at Drummond, Coutts and Barclay’s, Limited. He loved the sea, the sun, and the summer. He was off that day on a projected series of short country runs, in which it was his intention strictly to combine business and pleasure. Dartmoor, for example, as everybody knows, is a most delightful and bracing tourist district; but what more amusing to a man of taste than to go a round of the Moor with its heather-clad tors, and at the same time hunt up the parish registers of the neighbourhood for the purpose of discovering, if possible, the supposed marriage record of Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate with the Warings’ mother? For that there WAS a marriage Montague Nevitt felt certain in his own wise mind, and having early arrived at that correct conclusion, why, he had quietly offered forthwith, in Plymouth papers, a considerable reward to parish clerks and others who would supply him with any information as to the births, marriages, or deaths of any person or persons of the name of Waring for some eighteen months or so before or after the reputed date when Guy and Cyril began their earthly pilgrimage.

For deaths, Nevitt said to himself, with a sinister smile, were every bit as important to him as births or marriages. He knew the date of Colonel Kelmscott’s wedding with Lady Emily Croke, and if at that date wife number one was not yet dead, when the Colonel took to himself wife number two, who now did the honours of Tilgate Park for him, why, there you had as clear and convincing a case of bigamy as any man could wish to find out against another, and to utilize some day for his own good purposes.

As he thought these thoughts, Montague Nevitt gave the last delicate twirl, the final touch of art, to the wire-like ends of his waxed moustache, in front of his mirror, and, after surveying the result in the glass with considerable satisfaction, proceeded to set out, on very good terms with himself, for his summer holiday.

Devonshire, however, wasn’t his first destination. Montague Nevitt, besides being a man of business and a man of taste, was also in due season a man of feeling. A heart beat beneath that white rosebud in his left top button-hole. All his thoughts were not thoughts of greed and of gain. He was bound to Tilgate to-day, and to see a lady.

It isn’t so easy in England to see a lady alone. But fortune favours the brave. Luck always attended Mr. Montague Nevitt’s most unimportant schemes. Hardly had he got into the field path across the meadows between Tilgate station and the grounds of Woodlands than, at the seat by the bend, what should he see but a lady sitting down in an airy white summer dress, her head leaning on her hand, most pensive and melancholy. Montague Nevitt’s heart gave a sudden bound. In luck once more. It was Gwendoline Gildersleeve.

“Good morning!” he said briskly, coming up before Gwendoline had time to perceive him—and fly. “This is really most fortunate. I’ve run down from town today on purpose to see you, but hardly hoped I should have the good fortune to get a tete-a-tete with you—at least so easily. I’m so glad I’m in time. Now, don’t look so cross. You must at any rate admit, you know, my persistence is flattering.”

“I don’t feel flattered by it, Mr. Nevitt,” Gwendoline answered coldly, holding out her gloved hand to him with marked disinclination. “I thought last time I had said good-bye to you for good and for ever.”

Nevitt took her hand, and held it in his own a trifle longer than was strictly necessary. “Now don’t talk like that, Gwendoline,” he said coaxingly. “Don’t crush me quite flat. Remember at least that you ONCE were kind to me. It isn’t my fault, surely, if I still recollect it.”

Gwendoline withdrew her hand from his with yet more evident coolness. “Circumstances alter cases,” she said severely. “That was before I really knew you.”

“That was before you knew Granville Kelmscott, you mean,” Nevitt responded with an unpleasantly knowing air. “Oh yes, you needn’t wince; I’ve heard all about that. It’s my business to hear and find out everything. But circumstances alter cases, as you justly say, Gwendoline. And I’ve discovered some circumstances about Granville Kelmscott that may alter the case as regards your opinion of that rich young man, whose estate weighed down a poor fellow like me in what you’ve graciously pleased to call your affections.”

Gwendoline rose, and looked down at the man contemptuously. “Mr. Nevitt,” she said, in a chilling voice, “you’ve no right to call me Gwendoline any longer now. You’ve no right to speak to me of Mr. Granville Kelmscott. I refused your advances, not for any one else’s sake, or any one else’s estate, but simply and solely because I came to know you better than I knew you at first; and the more I knew of you the less I liked you. I am NOT engaged to Mr. Granville Kelmscott. I don’t mean to see him again. I don’t mean to marry him.”

Nevitt took his cue at once, like a clever hand that he was, and followed it up remorselessly. “Well, I’m glad to hear that anyhow,” he answered, assuming a careless air of utter unconcern, “for your sake as well as for his, Miss Gildersleeve; for Granville Kelmscott, as I happen to know in the course of business, is a ruined man—a ruined man this moment. He isn’t, and never was, the heir of Tilgate. And I’m sure it was very honourable of him, the minute he found he was a penniless beggar, to release you from such an unequal engagement.”

He had played his card well. He had delivered his shot neatly. Gwendoline, though anxious to withdraw from his hateful presence, couldn’t help but stay and learn more about this terrible hint of his. A light broke in upon her even as the fellow spoke. Was it this, then, that had made Granville talk so strangely to her that morning by the dell in the Woodlands? Was it this which, as he told her, rendered their marriage impossible? Why, if THAT were all—Gwendoline drew a deep breath and clasped her hands together in a sudden access of mingled hope and despair. “Oh, what do you mean, Mr. Nevitt,” she cried eagerly. “What can Granville have done? Don’t keep me in suspense! Do tell me what you mean by it.”

Montague Nevitt, still seated, looked up at her with a smile of quiet satisfaction. He played with her for a moment as a cat plays with a mouse. She was such a beautiful creature, so tall and fair and graceful, and she was so awfully afraid, and he was so awfully fond of her, that he loved to torture her th............