Over the bridge which spans the railway two miles from Canterbury a girl was riding a bicycle. She was perfect mistress of her machine--and nerves; for on the slope of the hill she let the wheels run freely, and did not trouble to use the brake. The white dust clouded the air as she down to the level; and the heat of the day--a July noon--was so great that she was fain to dismount for the sake of coolness. A wayside fence offered a seat; and, with a questioning glance to right and left, the girl balanced herself lightly on the topmost rail. Here she perched in a fashion, and fanned her flushed face with her straw hat. A pretty girl in so unconventional a position, unchaperoned and fearless, would have shocked the susceptibilities of our grandmothers. But this is the age of the New Woman, and the girl was a type of her .  
Assuredly a finer representative could not have been found. She was tall and straight, deep-bosomed and stately. Her sunburnt , her serviceable tailor-made dress and her shoes of brown leather, denoted a preference for life out of doors. Across her broad forehead, round her well-shaped head, fluttered tiny curls in a loose mass of gold. For the rest, a nose and two steady eyes of gray, a mouth rather wide, red-lipped and firm; there you have a portrait in your mind's eye of a charming gentlewoman--new style. Diana must have been just such another; but for brightness, sympathy, and womanly kindness the maid surpassed the goddess. If is to be credited, Diana was cold, and--vide Actæon's disaster--a trifle cruel. On the whole, this mortal was more lovable than that , and less dangerous; otherwise the comparison holds good. Miss Dora Carew was a modern Diana--on a bicycle.
 
Shortly, Diana of Kent reassumed her hat, and, folding her arms, stared absently across the fields. She saw not sheep or meadow, hedge or ditch, windmill or tree, for her mind was absorbed in her own thoughts; and these--as indexed by her changing expressions--did not seem to be over-pleasant. Dora frowned, smiled, wrinkled her forehead into two lines between the , and finally made a gesture of ; this last by a glance at her watch.
 
"I do wish he would be punctual," she muttered, jumping off the fence; "if not, I must----"
 
Further speech was interrupted by the crisp of a bell, and immediately afterwards a second bicycle, whirling down the slope, brought a young man to her feet. He was smart, and handsome; also he was full of apologies for being late, and made the most reasonable excuses, hat in hand.
 
"But you know, Dora, a doctor's time is not his own," he concluded; "and I was detained by a new patient--an aristocratic patient, my dear"--this he said with pride--"Lady Burville, a guest at Hernwood Hall."
 
"Lady Burville!" replied Miss Carew, starting. "Laura Burville?"
 
Dr. Scott looked profoundly surprised.
 
"I do not know that her name is Laura," he said; "and how you came to----"
 
"I heard it yesterday, Allen, for the first time."
 
"Indeed! From whom?"
 
"From the lips of my ."
 
"Mr. Edermont of Lady Burville?" The young doctor frowned thoughtfully. "Strange! This morning Lady Burville spoke of Mr. Edermont."
 
"What did she say, Allen? No, wait"--with an afterthought--"why did she call you in? Is she ill?"
 
"Indisposed--slightly indisposed--nothing to speak of. Yesterday she was at church, and the heat was too much for her. She fainted, and so----"
 
He completed the sentence with a .
 
"Oh!" said Dora, putting much expression into the ejaculation; "and yesterday my guardian also became indisposed in church."
 
"Really? Chillum Church?"
 
"Chillum Church."
 
They looked questioningly at one another, the same thought in the brain of each. Here was a stranger in the neighbourhood, a guest at Hernwood Hall, and she inquired for a scarcely known beyond the walls of his house. Again, here was a man who had not been absent from the district for over twenty years, who dwelt in strict , and he mentioned the name--the unknown name--of the strange lady. This coincidence--if it could be called so--was odd in the extreme, and even these two unsuspicious young people were struck by its singularity. Dora was the first to speak, and her remark was .
 
"Come with me to the Red House," said she, moving towards her bicycle. "Mr. Edermont is ill."
 
"Consequent upon his indisposition of yesterday, I suppose," replied Scott, following. "Since you wish it, I obey; but do not forget my position in the house."
 
Miss Carew waited until he alongside, and they were both swinging easily down the road. Then she glanced at him with a smile--a trifle roguish, and wholly charming.
 
"What is your position in the house, Allen?"
 
"Is it necessary to explain, my dear? I am the son of Mr. Edermont's oldest friend. I am one of the few people he admits to see him. With his sanction, I am your most lover. But"--and here the doctor became emphatic--"Mr. Edermont will not have me as a medical attendant--he will not have anyone. So my calling to see him professionally is rather--forgive me, my dearest--is rather impertinent."
 
"Then you must be impertinent enough to save his life," retorted Dora sharply. "He has never been really ill before, so far as I know, and there has been no occasion for a doctor at the Red House. But now"--her face assumed a serious expression--"he is not himself. He is , distraught, terrified."
 
"H'm! Terrified? That is strange. Are you sure that his indisposition dates from service in Chillum Church?"
 
"It dates from the reading of the Litany," said Dora . "You know, Allen, that for years my guardian has never failed to attend morning service at Chillum. You know also--for I have told you often--that at the prayers for deliverance from battle, murder, and sudden death he is accustomed to look questioningly round the congregation. He did so yesterday, as usual, and immediately afterwards he sank back half fainting in his seat. I wished him to leave the church at once, but he refused to go until the text was given out. Then he went home."
 
"And since then?"
 
"He has shut himself up in his room, and has neither eaten nor slept. He refuses to see me or speak to me. Several times I have been to his door to inquire if I could do anything, but he will not let me enter. He refuses admittance even to Mr. Joad. And all the hours he paces up and down, talking to himself."
 
"What does he talk about?" asked Scott .
 
"I cannot say, as he speaks too low for me to hear. But I caught the name of Laura Burville twice. Alarmed lest he should fall seriously ill, I wrote to you yesterday, making this appointment, and waited at the bridge to explain. What do you think of it, Allen?"
 
Scott his shoulders.
 
"I can hardly say until I see Mr. Edermont. At the present moment I can be sure only of one thing--that the sight of Lady Burville upset your guardian in the church, and versâ."
 
"But why should they be upset at the sight of one another? They are strangers."
 
"H'm! We cannot be certain of that," replied Allen cautiously. "That he should mention her name, that she should ask about him--these facts go to prove that, whatever they may be now to one another, they were not strangers in the past."
 
"Then the past must be quite twenty years ago," said Dora thoughtfully, "for Mr. Edermont has not left the Red House all that time. But what did Lady Burville say when you told her about my guardian?"
 
"She said--nothing. A wonderfully self-possessed little woman, although she looks like a doll and talks like a fool, Dora; therefore the fact of her fainting yesterday in church is all the more strange. I said that Mr. Edermont was to strangers, that he dwelt in the Red House, and that he was a good friend to me."
 
"You did not mention my name?"
 
"Dora! As though I should about you to a stranger! No, my dear. I merely told so much about Mr. Edermont, prescribed for the lady's nerves, and informed her host and Mr. Pallant that she would be all right to-morrow."
 
"And who is Mr. Pallant?"
 
"Did I not mention his name? Oh, he is another guest of Sir 's. He left the message that I was to call and see Lady Burville."
 
"Indeed. Why did not Sir Harry call in his own doctor?"
 
"Faith! that is more than I can say," replied Scott. "All the better for me that he did not. But how this Mr. Pallant found me out I do not know. It is my impression that, hearing he was riding into Canterbury, Lady Burville asked him to send her a doctor, and as he chanced on my door-plate first, he called on me. A lucky accident for a struggling , eh, Dora?"
 
"No doubt--if it was an accident," said she dryly. "What is this Mr. Pallant like, Allen?"
 
"A red-haired, blue-eyed, beast. I disliked him at sight. Rather a shame on my part, seeing that he has done me a good turn."
 
By this time they had arrived at the of Chillum, and alighted before a massive gate of wood set in a high brick wall, decorated at the top with broken glass.
 
The green of poplar-trees rose over the summit of this wall, and further back could be seen the red-tiled gable of a house. Opposite the gates on the other side of the dusty white road there was a small cottage buried in a of fir-trees. An untidy garden extended from its front-door to the quickset hedge which divided the grounds from the highway, and the house had a and look, as though rarely inhabited.
 
"Does old Joad still sleep in his cottage?" asked Allen, with a careless glance at the tiny house.
 
"Of course! You know Mr. Edermont won't let anyone stay in the house at night but myself and Meg Gance."
 
"That is the cook?"
 
"Cook, housemaid, general servant, and all the rest of it," replied Dora ; "she and I between us manage the domestic affairs of the . Mr. Edermont is too taken up with his library and Mr. Joad to pay attention to such details."
 
"He is always in the clouds," Allen, smiling. "By the way, who is Mr. Joad?"
 
Dora laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
 
"I'm sure I can't tell you that," she replied carelessly; "he is an old college friend of my guardian's, who gives him house-room."
 
"But not a bed?"
 
"No. Joad has to turn out at nine o'clock every night and return to his cottage. I believe he passes most of his evenings in the company of Mr. Pride."
 
"Pride, Pride?" said Allen thoughtfully--"oh, that is the little man who is so like your guardian."
 
"He is like him in the distance," answered Dora, "but a nearer view the illusion. Pride is, as you say, chubby, while Mr. Edermont is rather lean. But they are both short, both have heads of silvery hair, and both rejoice in patriarchal beards. Yes, they are not unlike one another."
 
While this conversation was taking place the young people were patiently before the jealously-closed gate. Dora had rung the bell twice, but as yet there was no sign that they would be admitted. The sun was so hot, the road so dusty, that Allen became impatient.
 
"Haven't you the key of the gate yourself, Dora?"
 
"No. Mr. Edermont won't allow anyone to have the key but himself. I don't know why."
 
"Let us go round to the little postern at the side of the wall," suggested Allen.
 
Dora shook her head with a laugh.
 
"Locked, my dear, locked. Mr. Edermont keeps the postern as firmly closed as these gates."
 
"A most extraordinary man!" retorted Scott, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he can be afraid of in this respectable neighbourhood."
 
"I think I can tell you, Allen."
 
"Can you, my dear? Then Mr. Edermont has said why----"
 
"He has said nothing," interrupted Dora, "but I have eyes and ears, my dear Allen. Mr. Edermont is afraid of losing his----"
 
"His money," interrupted Allen in his turn. "Oh yes, of course."
 
"There is no 'of course' in the matter," said Miss Carew sharply; "he is afraid of losing his life."
 
"His life? Dora!"
 
"I am sure of it, Allen. Remember his favourite prayer in the Litany--the prayer which takes his wandering eyes round the church: 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'"