“When did they go?  At what hour?”

She told him as well as she could.

“Where have they gone to?”

“I have not the least idea.  Bella gave no hint of this.  Would you like to see her note?” and she held it out to him.

The name appeared to sting him like the cut of a whip, for he started convulsively as he took the scrap of paper.  He read it through more than once, as if unable to comprehend it; the power of discrimination seemed blasted in his dry, red eyeballs; they could only glare.

He made it out at last, and crumpled it up in his hand, clenching it till the knuckles became dead-white under the strain.

“We were to have been married this day month,” he said to himself, in a hoarse whisper; then raising his voice, “You can guess, at least, which route they have taken?”

“Indeed I can not,” she answered; “I would have done any thing to prevent this; but you must see that pursuit now would be worse than useless; it could only lead to fresh evils.”

Then the smouldering passion burst into a flame.

“It is false,” he cried out; “you would have done nothing.  It is a plot.  You are all in it; you, your son, and more that I will know soon.  I saw it from the first moment I set foot in this cursed house.  And you think I will not be revenged?  Wait—­wait and see!” He spoke rapidly, but it seemed as if the words could hardly force their way through his gnashing teeth.

Good and kind-hearted as she was, there breathed no prouder woman than Lady Catharine Livingstone.  Before he had ended her hand was on the bell.

“Not even your disappointment can excuse your language,” she said, in her clear, vibrating tones; “our interview is ended.  I have pitied you hitherto, and blamed my niece; I do neither now:  she knew you better than I. Not one word more.  Mr. Bruce’s carriage.”

Bruce glared at her savagely.  He would have sold his soul, I believe, to have strangled her where she stood; but Guy’s own peculiar look was in the cold, disdainful eyes, which met his without flinching or faltering.  He knew that look very well, and quailed under it now, as he had done many times before.

“A last piece of advice,” Lady Catharine said, as he turned to go; “you had better curb your temper if you think of seeing my son.  He may scarcely be so patient with you as I have been.”

If he heard it he did not notice the remark, but left the room slowly.  He lifted his hand, but not his head, in a stealthy gesture of menace as he reached the door.

Lady Catharine stood for some moments after his departure as if in thought, unconsciously retaining her somewhat haughty attitude and expression.  Then she went to her room, and prayed, with many tears, that Isabel Raymond might never have to repent the step she had taken so rashly.  I think a presentiment of danger made her pray for Guy too.  But did she ever forget him when she was on her knees?