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Houghton’s face turned black, and he was about to answer angrily, but Cayley said: “On my honour–I will play a fair game,” he said.

For an instant their eyes were fixed on each other; then, with a gesture for Cayley to follow, Houghton went towards the house.

Five, minutes later Houghton said to his wife: “Alice, a stranger has come.”

“Who is it?” she asked breathlessly, for she read importance in his tone.

“It is the horseman we saw on the hillside.” His eyes passed over her face pityingly. “I will go and bring him.”

She caught his arm. “Who is it? Is it any one I know?”

“It is some one you know,” he answered, and left the room. Bewildered, anticipating, yet dreading to recognise her thoughts, she sat down and waited in a painful stillness.

Presently the door opened, and Cayley entered. She started to her feet with a stifled, bitter cry: “Oh, Harry!”

He hurried to her with arms outstretched, for she swayed; but she straightway recovered herself, and, leaning against a chair, steadied to his look.

“Why have you come here?” she whispered. “To say good-bye for always,” was his reply.

“And why–for always?” She was very white and quiet.

“Because we are not likely ever to meet again.”

“Where are you going?” she anxiously asked. “God knows!”

Strange sensations were working in her. What would be the end of this? Her husband, knowing all, had permitted this man to come to her alone. She had loved him for years; though he had deserted her years ago, she loved him still–did she love him still?

“Will you not sit down?” she said with mechanical courtesy.

A stranger would not have thought from their manner that there were lives at stake. They both sat, he playing with the leaves of an orchid, she opening and shutting her fan absently. But she was so cold she could hardly speak. Her heart seemed to stand still.

“How has the world used you since we met last?” she tried to say neutrally.

“Better, I fear, than I have used it,” he answered quietly.

“I do not quite see. How could you ill-use the world?” There was faint irony in her voice now. A change seemed to have come upon her.

“By ill-using any one person we ill-use society–the world”–he meaningly replied.

“Whom have you ill-used?” She did not look at him.

“Many–you chiefly.”

“How have you–most-ill-used me?”

“By letting you think well of me–you have done so, have you not?”

She did not speak, but lowered her head, and caught her breath slightly. There was a silence. Then she said: “There was no reason why I should–But you must not say these things to me. My husband–“

“Your husband knows all.”

“But that does not alter it,” she urged firmly. “Though he may be willing you should speak of these things, I am not.”

“Your husband is a good fellow,” he rejoined. “I am not.”

“You are not?” she asked wearily.

“No. What do you think was the reason that, years ago, I said we could never be married, and that we must forget each other?”

“I cannot tell. I supposed it was some duty of which I could not know. There are secret and sacred duties which we sometimes do not tell, even to our nearest and dearest… but I said we should not speak of these things, and we must not.” She rose to her feet. “My husband is somewhere near. I will call him. There are so many things that men can talk of-pleasant and agreeable things–“

He had risen with her, and as her hand was stretched out to ring, stayed it. “No, never mind your husband just now. I think he knows what I am going to say to you.”

“But, oh, you must not–must not!” she urged.

“Pardon me, but I must,” was his reply.

“As I said, you thought I was a good fellow. Well, I am not; not at all. I will tell you why I left you. I was–already married.”

He let the bare unrelieved fact face her, and shock her.