Yorke walked straight out of the club, leaving the two men staring at each other in amazement.

"Good Lord! poor Auchester is clean off his balance. Do you think it is the shock—that it was because we did not break it gently enough?"

The other man shook his head.

"N-o, I don't think so. He's been very queer in his manner lately, and—But who the devil did he mean when he said, 'She might have been a duchess?'"

Yorke strode along Pall Mall bewildered and stunned. At first he was too confused to feel anything; then regret and grief came uppermost. He was genuinely sorry. You may dislike your uncle and cousins, and yet be far from wishing them dead; and Yorke's eyes were moist, and there was a lump in his throat as he thought of his three kinsmen lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Then he began to realize what their unexpected and tragic death meant to him. There was only Dolph between him and the dukedom, and poor Dolph could not make old bones, and as it bore down upon him with its full significance, the terrible bitterness which had overwhelmed him at the club recurred. The turn of the wheel of fortune had come too late. If it had happened a month—five weeks earlier, he would not have been driven into a corner, the only way out of which was by a marriage with Eleanor Dallas.

"Too late!" he muttered. "Yes! if it had come sooner I might have kept Leslie;" but his heart revolted against his thought, and he swore under his breath, "No, no! It was the title she wanted, not me. It is better that she has gone!"

He went home and saw by Fleming's face that he had heard the sad news. Poor Fleming tried to look cut up, but it was hard work, seeing that he had been saying to himself since the moment he had read the paragraph, "My master will be a duke!"

"Dreadful news, my lord," he said, in the tone proper to the occasion.

"Yes, yes, Fleming," said Yorke, gravely.

"Your lordship will go over, I suppose?"

Yorke started slightly. He had not as yet thought of this, his obvious duty.

"Yes," he said. "Get some things ready and look out the time-table."

"Yes, my lord. Your lordship will go down to White Place first?" suggested Fleming, respectfully.

Yorke hesitated, but he assented.

"I'm to go abroad with you, my lord?" said Fleming tentatively, and Yorke nodded.

"You can if you like—just as you like," he said.

"Thank you, my Lord, I will go," said Fleming. "Your lordship may want things done, and I may be useful."

"You are always that," Yorke said; and it was just such simple expressions of appreciation as this that won the regard and devotion of Fleming and his kind.

Yorke went off to White Place that night. He was tired, but he could not sleep in the train, though he tried. His mind was too overburdened with thought. Late as it was, the ladies were up, and they had heard the news from a servant who had brought an evening paper from town.

Its effect upon Lady Eleanor was strange, and puzzled Lady Denby at first, for Lady Eleanor let the paper drop from her hand, and stood staring before her with an expression in her eyes which was rather that of some vague dread than sorrow.

Lady Denby went to her and drew her to a couch.

"It is terribly sudden, and I am not surprised at your being upset, dear," she said. "But—What is it, Eleanor? You are not going to faint?" for Lady Eleanor had swayed and fallen back with the look of dread still in her eyes.

She recovered after a moment, and the tears came.

"Oh, poor things, poor things! Oh, it is dreadful; but God forgive me, it was not of them I was thinking but of—of Yorke and myself!"

"Of Yorke?" said Lady Denby, puzzled still.

"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, in a low and half-shamed voice. "Don't you see the—the wedding must be put off now!"

Lady Denby stroked her hand soothingly.

"Yes, of course, dear; but there is nothing in that to frighten you; for you look frightened, Eleanor."

"Seems like—like a judgment on me; as if heaven were angry and meant to throw obstacles in the way——."

"Oh, my dear Eleanor!"

"Yes! You don't know—you don't understand what I feel! And I felt so happy, so safe! and now—How long do you think it will be necessary to put it off?"

Lady Denby was very nearly shocked.

"The suddenness of this terrible news has upset you, Eleanor," she said, gravely; "but for heaven's sake don't talk so—so callously."

"You do not know!" repeated Lady Eleanor, with a deep sigh. "It is not that I do not feel for them. Ah, yes, I do, keenly; as keenly as you can; but—but it is as if it were fated that something should occur to prevent our marriage." She was silent for a moment; and then she said, as if to herself: "He will be the duke. I am sorry."

"Sorry!" Lady Denby stared at her.

"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, in the same low, reflective voice. "Yes; I would rather he was what he is, and—and poor. I would rather that he owed everything to me. Now—now it will be I who will owe much to him."

"That is as fine a sample of pride as I have ever met with," said Lady Denby.

"Is it?" said Lady Eleanor. "You do not know or understand. Do you think"—she looked up with a look of pain in her beautiful eyes—"do you think that if he were free he would wish me now to be his wife?"

"Eleanor, I have often said, in jest, that your affection for Yorke was undermining your reason; but in solemn truth I begin to think that there is some truth in my assertion. Dry your eyes and compose yourself. He will be here presently; he is sure to come the moment he hears the news. He will have to go over and see about the funeral."

"No, no; why should he?" said Lady Eleanor, then she flushed as if with shame. "Yes, yes, of course! and you think he will come?"

"There he is!" said Lady Denby, as they heard Yorke's step in the hall. "For heaven's sake don't breathe to him the charming sentiments you have favored me with."

Lady Eleanor shook her head and bit her lips to bring the color into them.

"Do not fear," she said. "It is only when I am alone or with you that I show my doubts and fears."

Yorke came in and took her in his arms and kissed her.

"You have heard the news, Eleanor, I see," he said gravely.

"Yes, it is dreadful, dreadful! To think that all three should be gone—those two poor boys! You are going over, Yorke?" for he had got on his traveling ulster.

"Yes; I am going to meet Fleming at Charing Cross to-morrow morning. I shall have to go back at once."

"At once! It was good of you to come so far just to say good-by; but you are always good to me, Yorke," and she laid her head on his shoulder. "This—this will make a difference to you, dearest?"

He did not affect not to understand her.

"Yes," he said, simply. "Two days ago there seemed little chance of my being the Duke of Rothbury. Now—but I hope and trust dear old Dolph will live to be a hundred."

"And I, and I!" she responded fervently. "I would rather have you as you are, Yorke; far, far rather."

"I'm afraid that this sad affair will delay our marriage, Eleanor," he said, and he said it as regretfully as he could.

"Yes," she whispered, her face still hidden on his shoulder—"Yes, it must, I suppose; but"—he could almost feel her blush—"but not for long?" she asked, nearly inaudibly.

"I don't know," he stammered. "I—we shall see. I must find Dolph. He was in Switzerland, but I think it is very likely that he has moved down south with the cooler weather. He will be cut up. He liked poor Eustace better than any of us did. I must go now, dear," he said, presently.

"So soon?"

"Yes, I am afraid so. Is there anything you want me to do—anything I can tell Dolph?"

She shook her head.

"There is only one thing I want," she said, in a low voice, "and that is—you! Come back as soon—the first moment you can, Yorke, and—and don't forget me!"

He would have been a far worse man than he was if he had not been touched by the depth of her love, and he kissed her with greater warmth than he had ever before shown her.

When he had gone Lady Eleanor threw herself down on the sofa and hid her face in her hands, and Lady Denby, when she came in an hour later, found her thus.

Do it as luxuriously as you may, the journey from England to the south of Italy is a tiresome and aggravating one, and Yorke reached Policastro—the place at which the bodies were lying—worn out mentally and physically. It was fortunate that the devoted Fleming had accompanied him, and never did his devotion display itself more plainly or to better advantage. There were a number of persons, busybodies, there, who would have surrounded Lord Auchester at once—the whole coast was in a state of excitement over the catastrophe—but Fleming kept them at bay, and insisted upon his master taking some rest before he commenced the painful duties necessitated by the circumstances.

"His lordship isn't going to see any one to-night," he assured the landlord of the hotel. "Not if it was the King of Italy himself. If anybody wants to know anything, let them come to me."

The landlord only half understood, but he was considerably awed by Fleming's tone, and departed shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his hands after the manner of his nation.

In the morning Yorke went and identified the bodies and arranged for the funeral, and was returning to the hotel when he met Grey, the duke's valet.

"His grace has just arrived, my lord. I came to meet you," he said. "I hope your lordship is well?" he added, respectfully, and with rather a serious glance at Yorke's face.

Yorke nodded.

"All right, thank you, Grey," he said. "And the duke?"

Grey hesitated.

"About as well as usual, I hope, my lord," he said, quietly. "This sad affair has upset him, of course, and—and he hasn't been very strong lately—not since we left England, indeed, my lord. Your lordship will find him looking thinner," he added, as if to warn Yorke.

Yorke quickened his pace, and Grey led him to the duke's room.

The room was darkened by the drawn blinds, and Yorke, coming out of the sunlight saw but indistinctly for a moment; then, as the duke raised himself on the couch, he started and found speech difficult. The duke was but a shadow of even his former self, and the hand which he extended was so thin that Yorke was afraid to press it.

"Why, Dolph," he said, with forced cheerfulness, "this is a surprise! How did you come here?"

"We have been traveling night and day, as you have no doubt," said the duke, and his voice sounded much thinner and more feeble than when Yorke had last heard it. "Pull up an inch or two of one of the blinds and let me look at you."

Yorke did so, and came back to the couch, and the duke, after scanning his face, fell back with a faint sigh.

"And so you are going to be the next duke, after all. How you and I have fretted—No, I don't know that you ever cared much, but I did—and it has all come right at last! The Providence that 'shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will,' has decreed that poor Eustace and his boys should go down there in the bay and that you should reign in his place!"

"I wish they were all alive still," said Yorke, with sincerity.

"I know you do," responded the duke. "But I can't help thinking, as I have always thought, that you will make a good duke, Yorke. You have the presence and the moral strength, and a better temper than poor Eustace. He was too fond of his money. But of the dead let us speak nothing but good. And now about yourself. Why did you not write and tell me of your engagement? Never mind; I understand. And if I did not write and tell you I was glad, you knew it without any epistolatory assurance from me. You have done wisely, Yorke, very wisely. Eleanor has everything that a man wants in a wife—youth, beauty, wealth and station. She will make a splendid duchess, Yorke."

"Yes," said Yorke, staring at the carpet moodily.

"I suppose I must hang on until you are married," said the duke, as cheerfully and coolly as if he were talking of somebody else. "Once or twice lately I have been inclined to throw up the sponge, but somehow I've got a hankering to see you settled; and then I suppose I shall want to live long enough to take the next heir on my knee. Men are never satisfied. But I don't suppose I shall be able to hold out till then."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk such arrant nonsense!" Yorke said, emphatically. "You are no worse than you were."

The duke smiled at him calmly but significantly.

"My dear fellow, I am hanging on to life by my eyelashes," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You must get back to England as quickly as possible," said Yorke, trying to speak in an assured and perfectly confident voice. "There is nothing like England in the winter, after all. Come back and let Eleanor nurse you."

"That's an inducement, certainly," said the duke. "Eleanor and I were always good friends."

There was silence for a few moments; then the duke, after glancing once or twice at Yorke's grave face, said, in a low voice that faltered:

"There—there is no news of—of—"

He stopped.

"Of whom?" said Yorke, with a frown, though he knew well enough.

"Of Leslie," said the duke, and a faint flush passed over his emaciated face.

Yorke shook his head.

"No," he replied, clearing his throat. "No, I have seen nothing and heard nothing of her since I left Portmaris."

"She must have gone out of England," said the duke, knitting his brows. "Her father being an artist—as he thinks himself, poor fellow—would be ready enough to come abroad here on the Continent. It is strange that I have not run across them."

Yorke said nothing, but the frown on his forehead deepened and darkened.

"When I shuffle off this mortal coil you will find in my will that I have mentioned—Leslie." He paused before the name. "You won't mind, Yorke? She wouldn't take any money from me alive, but she may not mind when I'm gone. After all, it was a cruel trick we—no, I—played her, Yorke," he said, in a remorseful tone.

"It was!" said Yorke, curtly. "But it was a test, and she failed in it."

The duke sighed. Silence again for a moment or two; then, as if he were giving speech to a thought that had occurred to him before, and often before, this he said, hesitatingly:

"Do you think—mind, I only ask you the question for the sake of asking it; I have no reason for doing so—but do you think that there was the slightest chance of our having made a mistake?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Yorke.

"I mean—well, it is difficult to say exactly what I mean. But you know—or perhaps you don't know—how sick men brood and brood over a thing. You see, we have so much time on our hands lying on our backs and counting the flies on the ceiling, that we think over things a great deal more closely than men in sound health. And—and at times a doubt has crossed my mind." He stopped. "There is no ground for it. I am sure I could not have been mistaken; she spoke only too plainly the morning we parted. Besides, there is the fact of her breaking her appointment with you; of leaving you without a word beyond the message she sent by me."

"And the message she sent by Arnheim. I met him the other day and he gave it to me; I went off too quickly on the other occasion for him to do so. It was like that she sent by you; she wished to see me no more," said Yorke, grimly.

"Yes, yes! There could be no mistake, and yet—well, I have lain and thought of her as she was when we first met her, do you remember?"

Yorke smiled grimly. Did he remember?

"So girlish and innocent; so quick to be pleased, and so grateful," he sighed.

"Yes; sometimes it has seemed impossible to me that she should have been so base and mercenary. But there could be no mistake, as you say. And, mind, I should not have said this if you had still been unsettled and hankering after her; but now——."

"Don't say it now, either!" broke out Yorke, springing to his feet and pacing up and down. "For God's sake, don't talk of—of that time or of her. I—I can't bear it! I beg your pardon, Dolph; but don't you see—don't you understand that though a man may cover up his wound and cease to complain, the heart may sting and ache still? I want to forget—to forget! and—and if there is any doubt—but there can't be—I've got to shut my eyes and ears to it—to put it away from me. If I did not—if I entertained it for a moment—well—" He stopped and laughed bitterly. "That way madness lies! You and I had better agree to taboo the subject. The sound of her name—How soon can we leave this place?" he broke off.

The duke sighed.

"You must get back as quickly as possible," he said. "Eleanor will miss you. The wedding need not be put off very long. You are already practically the duke. I shall pass over all the business of the estate to you at once, and it is right and fitting that you should be married. The world will see that. Three months, too, will be long enough to wait; the wedding can be a perfectly quiet one."

"Very well," said Yorke, dully. "Settle it as you like."

"Yes! it can't be too soon," said the duke, thoughtfully. "You've got to consider me, you know," and he laughed. "Look here, my lord, you may as well begin to take the burden on your shoulders. Give me that dispatch-box; there are some letters Grey has been bothering me about. It is something about the trees in the Home park at Rothbury. Cut 'em down or let 'em stand, just as you think proper. They will be yours, you know, very shortly, thank God!"