“Going away! going away!” replied Dacres, slowly.  “Who told you?”

“Miss Fay.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it.”

“There’s no doubt about it, my dear boy.  Miss Fay told me explicitly. 
She said they were going in a carriage by the way of Civita
Castellana.”

“What are they going that way for?  What nonsense!  I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, it’s a fact.  Besides, they evidently don’t want it to be known.”

“What’s that?” asked Dacres, eagerly.

“I say they don’t seem to want it to be known.  Miss Fay told me in her childish way, and I saw that Mrs. Willoughby looked vexed, and tried to stop her.”

“Tried to stop her!  Ah!  Who were there?  Were you calling?”

“Oh no—­it was yesterday morning.  I was riding, and, to my surprise, met them.  They were driving—­Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Fay, you know—­so I chatted with them a few moments, or rather with Miss Fay, and hoped I would see them again soon, at some fete or other, when she told me this.”

“And my wife tried to stop her?”

“Yes.”

“And looked vexed?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was some secret of hers.  She has some reason for keeping dark.  The other has none.  Aha! don’t I understand her?  She wants to keep it from me.  She knows you’re my friend, and was vexed that you should know.  Aha! she dreads my presence.  She knows I’m on her track.  She wants to get away with her Italian—­away from my sight.  Aha! the tables are turned at last.  Aha! my lady.  Now we’ll see.  Now take your Italian and fly, and see how far you can get away from me.  Take him, and see if you can hold him.  Aha! my angel face, my mild, soft eyes of love, but devil’s heart—­can not I understand it all?  I see through it.  I’ve watched, you.  Wait till you see Scone Dacres on your track!”

“What’s that?  You don’t really mean it?”
cried Hawbury.

“Yes, I do.”

“Will you follow her?”

“Yes, I will.”

“What for?  For a vague fancy of your jealous mind?”

“It isn’t a fancy; it’s a certainty.  I’ve seen the Italian dogging her, dodging about her house, and riding with her.  I’ve seen her looking very much as if she were expecting him at her balcony.  Is all that nothing?  She’s seen me, and feels conscience-stricken, and longs to get away where she may be free from the terror of my presence.  But I’ll track her.  I’ll strike at her—­at her heart, too; for I will strike through the Italian.”

“By Jove!”

“I will, I swear!” cried Dacres, gloomily.

“You’re mad, Dacres.  You imagine all this.  You’re like a madman in a dream.”

“It’s no dream.  I’ll follow her.  I’ll track her.”

“Then, by Jove, you’ll have to take me with you, old boy!  I see you’re not fit to take care of yourself.  I’ll have to go and keep you from harm.”

“You won’t keep me from harm, old chap,” said Dacres, more gently; “but I’d be glad if you would go.  So come along.”