Val put his hand up to his forehead.  “I did feel something when I washed just now,” he remarked slowly, as though doubting whether anything was wrong or not.  “It must have been done—­when I—­struck against that tree,” he added, apparently taxing his recollection.

“How was that?”

“I was running in the dusk, and did not notice the branch of a tree in my way.  It’s nothing, Anne, and will soon go off.”

Mr. Carteret came in, looking just as Val Elster had done—­out of sorts.  Questions were showered upon him as to the fate of the race; but the dowager’s voice was heard above all.

“This is a pretty time to make your appearance, sir!  Where’s Lord Hartledon?”

“In his room, I suppose.  Hartledon never came,” he added in sulky tones, as he turned from her to the rest.  “I rowed on, and on, thinking how nicely I was distancing him, and got down, the mischief knows where.  Miles, nearly, I must have gone.”

“But why did you pass the turning-point?” asked one.

“There was no turning-point,” returned Mr. Carteret; “some confounded meddler must have unmoored the boat as soon as the first race was over, and I, like an idiot, rowed on, looking for it.  All at once it came into my mind what a way I must have gone, and I turned and waited.  And might have waited till now,” he added, “for Hart never came.”

“Then his arm must have failed him,” exclaimed Captain Dawkes.  “I thought it was all wrong.”

“It wasn’t right, for I soon shot past him,” returned young Carteret.  “But Hart knew the spot where the boat ought to have been, though I didn’t; what he did, I suppose, was to clear round it just as though it had been there, and come in home again.  It will be an awful shame if he takes an unfair advantage of it, and claims the race.”

“Hartledon never took an unfair advantage in his life,” spoke up Val Elster, in clear, decisive tones.  “You need not be afraid, Carteret.  I dare say his arm failed him.”

“Well, he might have hallooed when he found it failing, and not have suffered me to row all that way for nothing,” retorted young Carteret.  “Not a trace could I see of him as I came back; he had hastened home, I expect, to shut himself up in his room with his damaged arm and foot.”

“I’ll see what he’s doing there,” said Val.

He went out; but returned immediately.

“We are all under a mistake,” was his greeting.  “Hartledon has not returned yet.  His servant is in his room waiting for him.”

“Then what do you mean by telling stories?” demanded the countess-dowager, turning sharply on Mr. Carteret.

“Good Heavens, ma’am! you need not begin upon me!” returned young Carteret.  “I have told no stories.  I said Hart let me go on, and never came on himself; if that’s a story, I’ll swallow Dawkes’s skiff and the sculls too.”

“You said he was in his room.  You know you did.”