In the midst of the running tide of joke and banter Violet sat as one apart.  Now and then she joined spasmodically in the general merriment, but often she did not know what she laughed at.  There was a great fear at her heart, and it tormented her perpetually.  That note that she had crumpled and burnt!  His eyes had rested upon it during the moment he had held it in his hand.  How much had they seen?  And what was it that had induced him in the first place to declare his intention of curtailing their visit?  Why had he reminded her that she was his wife?  Surely he must have heard something—­suspected something!  But what?

Covertly she watched him during that interminable dinner, watched his clear-cut face with its clever forehead and intent eyes, his slightly scornful, wholly unyielding lips.  She cast her thoughts backwards over their honeymoon, trying somehow to trace an adequate reason for the fear that gripped her.  He had been very forbearing with her throughout that difficult time.  He had been gentle; he had been considerate.  Though he had asserted and maintained his mastery over her, though his will had subdued hers, he had never been unreasonable, never so much as impatient, in his treatment of her.  He had given her no cause for the dread that now consumed her, unless it were that by his very self-restraint he had inspired in her a fear of the unknown.

No, she had to look farther back than her honeymoon, back to the days of Burleigh Wentworth’s trial, and the almost superhuman force by which he had dragged him free.  It was that force with which she would have very soon to reckon, that overwhelming, all-consuming power that had wrestled so victoriously in Wentworth’s defence.  How would it be when she found herself confronted by that?  She shivered and dared not think.

The stream of gaiety flowed on around her.  Someone—­Wentworth she knew later—­proposed a game of hide-and-seek by moonlight in and about the old ruins on the shores of the loch.  She would have preferred to remain behind, but he made a great point of her going also.  She did not know if Percival went or not, but she did not see him among the rest.  The fun was fast and furious, the excitement great.  Almost in spite of herself she was drawn in.

And then, how it happened she scarcely knew, she found herself hiding alone with Wentworth in a little dark boat-house on the edge of the water.  He had a key with him, and she heard him turn it on the inside.

“I think we are safe here,” he said, and then in the darkness his arms were round her.  He called her by every endearing name that he could think of.

Why was it his ardour failed to reach her?  She had yielded to him only that afternoon.  She had suffered him to kiss away her tears.  But now something in her held her back.  She drew herself away.

“Come and sit in the boat!” he said.  “We will go on the water as soon as the hue and cry is over.  Hush!  Don’t speak!  They are coming now.”