When she reappeared, three or four young cavalrymen were at the gate, chatting with Mrs. Waldron, and the picture was passed from hand to hand, exciting varied comment.  It was a simple carte de visite, of the style once spoken of as vignette,—­only the head and shoulders being visible,—­but it was the picture of a strong, clear-cut face, with thick, wavy black hair just tingeing with gray, a drooping moustache, and long English whiskers.  The eyes were heavy-browed, and, though partially shaded by the gold-rimmed pince-nez, were piercing and fine.  Mr. Van Antwerp was unquestionably a fine-looking man.

“Here comes Hayne,” said Royce.  “Show it to him.  He likes pictures; though I wouldn’t like this one if I were in his place.”

Mr. Hayne stopped in some surprise when hailed, greeted Mrs. Waldron warmly, and bowed courteously to Mrs. Buxton, who was watching him narrowly.

“Want to see a picture of the man you ought to go and perforate?” asked Webster, with that lofty indifference which youngsters have to the ravages of the tender passion on subjects other than themselves.

“To whom do you refer?” asked Hayne, smiling gravely, and little imagining what was in store for him.

“This,” said Webster, holding out the card.  Hayne took it, gave one glance, started, seized it with both hands, studied it eagerly, while his own face rapidly paled, then looked up with quick, searching eyes.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“The man who’s engaged to Miss Travers,—­Mr. Van Antwerp.”

“This—­this—­Mr. Van Antwerp!” exclaimed Hayne, his face white as a sheet.  “Here, take it, Royce!” And in an instant he had turned and gone.

“Well, I’ll be hanged if I knew he was that hard hit,” drawled Webster.  “Did you, Royce?”

But Royce did not answer.

A gorgeous moonlight is bathing the Jersey coast in sparkling silver.  The tumbling billows come thundering in to the shining strand, and sending their hissing, seething, whirling waters, all shimmer and radiance, to the very feet of the groups of spectators.  There are hundreds of people scattered here and there along the shingle, and among the groups a pale-faced young man in tweed travelling-suit has made his way to a point where he can command a view of all the passers-by.  It is nearly eleven o’clock before they begin to break up and seek the broad corridors of the brilliantly-lighted hotel.  A great military band of nearly forty pieces is playing superbly at intervals, and every now and then, as some stirring martial strains come thrilling through the air, a young girl in a group near at hand beats time with her pretty foot and seems to quiver with the influence of the soldier melodies.  A tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired man bends devotedly over her, but he, too, seems to rise to his full height at times, and there is something in the carriage and mien that tells that soldier songs have thrilled his veins ere now.  And this man the young traveller in gray watches as though his eyes were fascinated.  Standing in the shade of a little summer-house, he never ceases his scrutiny of the group.