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“How much does she guess? How much does she suspect?”

He had told the story of George’s disappearance and of his own suspicions, suppressing only the names of those concerned in the mystery; but what if this girl should fathom this slender disguise, and discover for herself that which he had chosen to withhold.

Her grave eyes were fixed upon his face, and he knew that she was trying to read the innermost secrets of his mind.

“What am I in her hands?” he thought. “What am I in the hands of this woman, who has my lost friend’s face and the manner of Pallas Athene. She reads my pitiful, vacillating soul, and plucks the thoughts out of my heart with the magic of her solemn brown eyes. How unequal the fight must be between us, and how can I ever hope to conquer against the strength of her beauty and her wisdom?”

Mr. Audley was clearing his throat preparatory to bidding his beautiful companion good-morning, and making his escape from the thraldom of her presence into the lonely meadow outside the churchyard, when Clare Talboys arrested him by speaking upon that very subject which he was most anxious to avoid.

“You promised to write to me, Mr. Audley,” she said, “if you made any discovery which carried you nearer to the mystery of my brother’s disappearance. You have not written to me, and I imagine, therefore, that you have discovered nothing.”

Robert Audley was silent for some moments. How could he answer this direct question?

“The chain of circumstantial evidence which unites the mystery of your brother’s fate with the person whom I suspect,” he said, after a pause, “is formed of very slight links. I think that I have added another link to that chain since I saw you in Dorsetshire.”

“And you refuse to tell me what it is that you have discovered?”

“Only until I have discovered more.”

“I thought from your message that you were going to Wildernsea.”

“I have been there.”

“Indeed! It was there that you made some discovery, then?”

“It was,” answered Robert. “You must remember, Miss Talboys that the sole ground upon which my suspicions rest is the identity of two individuals who have no apparent connection—the identity of a person who is supposed to be dead with one who is living. The conspiracy of which I believe your brother to have been the victim hinges upon this. If his wife, Helen Talboys, died when the papers recorded her death—if the woman who lies buried in Ventnor churchyard was indeed the woman whose name is inscribed on the headstone of the grave—I have no case, I have no clew to the mystery of your brother’s fate. I am about to put this to the test. I believe that I am now in a position to play a bold game, and I believe that I shall soon arrive at the truth.”

He spoke in a low voice, and with a solemn emphasis that betrayed the intensity of his feeling. Miss Talboys stretched out her ungloved hand, and laid it in his own. The cold touch of that slender hand sent a shivering thrill through his frame.

“You will not suffer my brother’s fate to remain a mystery, Mr. Audley,” she said, quietly. “I know that you will do your duty to your friend.”

The rector’s wife and her two companions entered the churchyard as Clara Talboys said this. Robert Audley pressed the hand that rested in his own, and raised it to his lips.

“I am a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, Miss Talboys,” he said; “but if I could restore your brother George to life and happiness, I should care very little for any sacrifice of my own feeling, fear that the most I can do is to fathom the secret of his fate and in doing that I must sacrifice those who are dearer to me than myself.”

He put on his hat, and hurried through the gateway leading into the field as Mrs. Martyn came up to the porch.

“Who is that handsome young man I caught tete-a-tete with you, Clara?” she asked, laughing.