* * * * *

“I won’t tell any one—­but Muriel—­till you have seen Lady Lucy,” said Diana, as they approached the house, and found Marsham’s horse waiting at the door.

He acquiesced, and it was arranged that he should go up to town the following day, Sunday—­see Lady Lucy—­and return on the Monday.

Then he rode away, waving his hand through the darkness.

* * * * *

Marsham’s horse carried him swiftly through country roads, where the moon made magic, and peace reigned.  But the mind of the rider groped in confusion and despair, seeing no way out.

Only one definite purpose gathered strength—­to throw himself on the counsel of Sir James Chide.  Chide had known—­from the beginning!

CHAPTER X

Marsham reached Felton Hall about six o’clock.  The house, a large Georgian erection, belonging to pleasant easy-going people with many friends, was full of guests, and the thought of the large party which he must face at dinner and in the evening had been an additional weight in his burden during the long ride home.

No means of escaping it, or the gossip with regard to himself, which must, he knew, be raging among the guests!

That gossip had not troubled him when he had set forth in the early afternoon.  Quite the contrary.  It had amused him as he rode to Beechcote, full of confident hope, to think of announcing his engagement.  What reason would there be for delay or concealment?  He looked forward to the congratulations of old friends; the more the better.

The antithesis between “then” and “now” struck him sharply, as he dismounted.  But for that last quarter of an hour with Diana, how jubilantly would he have entered the house!  Ten minutes with Lady Felton—­a dear, chattering woman!—­and all would have been known.  He pictured instinctively the joyous flutter in the house—­the merry dinner—­perhaps the toasts.

As it was, he slipped quietly into the house, hoping that his return might pass unnoticed.  He was thankful to find no one about—­the hall and drawing-room deserted.  The women had gone up to rest before dinner; the men had not long before come back muddy from hunting, and were changing clothes.

Where was Sir James Chide?

He looked into the smoking-room.  A solitary figure was sitting by the fire.  Sir James had a new novel beside him; but he was not reading, and his cigar lay half smoked on the ash-tray beside him.

He was gazing into the blaze, his head on his hand, and his quick start and turn as the door of the smoking-room opened showed him to be not merely thoughtful but expectant.

He sprang up.

“Is that you, Oliver?”

He came forward eagerly.  He had known Marsham from a child, had watched his career, and formed a very shrewd opinion of his character.  But how this supreme moment would turn—­if, indeed, the supreme moment had arrived—­Sir James had no idea.