A few minutes later Winfield returned. He entered the carriage without a word. He seemed stunned by what he had heard.

"What is it, Winfield?—tell me."

Winfield looked thoughtful, he seemed at a loss what to do or to say. Then he opened the carriage window.

"Drive on," he said to the coachman.

"Where to, sir?"

"The station," he said; "that is, The Beeches Station."

"Yes, sir."

"I say, what is it, Winfield?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be an ass—tell me."

"It's the general impression that there's to be no wedding to-day," said Winfield grimly.

Leicester seemed prepared for this. He never moved a muscle of his face, but it was evident his mind was working quickly.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"I found the church caretaker, or sexton, or whatever they call him," said Winfield, "and he told me that he had received orders at eight o'clock this morning to open neither the church gates nor the church doors, as the wedding would not take place to-day."

"I see," said Leicester. "What besides?"

"It seems the talk among these people that the telegraph clerk has had a busy time this morning. It is said that he has sent hundreds of telegrams, all signed 'Castlemaine.' I expect that's a bit exaggerated," he added.

"And the purport of these telegrams?"

"There is a general impression that they all repeated the information which the caretaker gave me. I say, Leicester, have you any explanation to give?"

"I? None. No, I must receive the information. Yes, at least that's due to me."

"Have you received no communication of any sort?"

"I? No, I forgot. I did not ask about my letters this morning. I—I think I was too—excited."

"Drinking?"

"No; but if—I say!" He put his head out of the carriage window. "Not to The Beeches Station," he said; "the house—you understand?"

The driver grinned. Evidently he had heard what had been said, but he said "Yes, sir," quite civilly, and changed the direction of the horses' heads.

Winfield wanted to say more to Leicester, but he dared not, the look on the man's face was too ghastly.

"Here's fine copy for the yellow journalist," thought Winfield. "It seems a pity that this kind of thing is not in my line. It would be more eagerly read than any news about the Armenian atrocities. But there, there will be enough to give this matter publicity. I wonder what lies at the bottom of it. Of course some plausible excuses will be given to the local reporters—Miss Castlemaine ill, or Mr. Leicester called to Abyssinia; but there's some tragedy at the back of this, as sure as my name's Arthur Winfield. Poor old Leicester, he looks death-stricken."

The carriage drew up at the door of The Beeches, and Winfield looked out. No one was to be seen. There were no signs that anything of importance had happened, or would happen. It might have been an empty house, for all the signs of life that were visible. As for suggestions of a wedding, they were nowhere apparent. The springtime had not come, but the day was warm, and an air of restfulness seemed to reign over the grounds. The hall door was closed.

Leicester leapt from the carriage, then he looked around in a dazed kind of way. He noted the great beeches in the park, and the passing of a distant train.

"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is ill," said Winfield, "or it may be that something has happened to her father." He wanted to chase away the ghastly look which rested on the other's face.

But Leicester seemed to take no heed; rather he appeared to be trying to realise the situation.

"Let me see, Winfield," he said. "I want to understand. Put me right if I am in the wrong. To-day is the day arranged for my wedding-day. Two hundred guests were invited. We were to be married up at the church yonder, by that man Sackville. When we got there we found the place locked, while you were informed that the caretaker had received orders to keep the place locked, as there was to be no wedding. You were also told that the telegraph clerk had sent away a lot of messages saying the same thing as the man at the church told you. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. But Miss Castlemaine or her father may be ill, you know. You did not look at your letters this morning, and thus were in ignorance."

"I only wanted to be sure I had got hold of the facts," replied Leicester. "I might be mistaken, you know. I feel all knocked about."

He went to the door and rang the bell. After what seemed ages to him, it was opened by an old servant.

"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"

The man hesitated a second, and then said:

"I believe so, sir."

"Is—is—she well?"

He did not seem to realise what he was saying, and yet he watched the servant's face closely.

"As far as I know of, sir."

"Will you tell her I wish to see her?"

Again the man hesitated.

"Excuse me, sir," he said presently, "but you can't see her."

"Why?" he asked in a dazed way.

"It's not for me to say, sir."

By a strong effort he controlled himself, the old look of determination came back into his eyes, and he spoke more like his normal self.

"Am I to understand that you have her orders to this effect?"

"Yes, sir—that is, from Mr. Castlemaine, sir."

"Will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I wish to see her?"

There was a tone of command in his voice. The man felt like obeying.

"It's no use, sir," he said; "my orders was most explicit, sir."

A savage look flashed into his eyes, but he held himself under control.

"I wish you to go to Miss Castlemaine and tell her that I must see her."

"My orders, sir, was most——"

"Go and tell her," he said quietly, "that I must see her, and that I shall wait here until I do."

The look in his eyes frightened the old servant. Besides, for some time now, he had been led to look upon him as his future master.

"For God's sake, Mr. Leicester——" he said piteously.

"Go, or I will not be answerable for the consequences," he said, in the same quiet tones; "tell them that I will not take 'No' for an answer."

The servant looked helplessly, first at Leicester and then at Winfield. Finally he closed the door in their faces like one afraid.

"I'll do the best I can, sir," he said, "but you must not come in."

A few minutes later he came back again, and his face was almost as pale as that of the young man who had stood as still as a statue on the doorstep.

"If you please, sir, you are both to follow me," he said in a frightened whisper.

Leicester was perfectly calm now, but the calm was unnatural; his every feature was set and rigid, his face had a pallor that was deathly. He followed the man without a word. As for Winfield, he felt that the whole atmosphere of the place was charged with excitement, and he wondered why he was also asked to follow the servant.

With faltering steps the man led the way into the library. Leicester knew that this was John Castlemaine's favourite room, and that it was here he spent most of his time when he was at home. The servant opened the door, and then closed it again, noiselessly.

Olive Castlemaine and her father were both standing near the fireplace as the young men entered. The man's face was cold, and stern, and relentless. As for Olive, she gave evidence of a sleepless night. Her eyes were dry and hard, but her face, though pale, suggested no signs of weakness. She looked almost composed, except that her lips were compressed.

Leicester took a step towards her, but only a step. The look in her eyes forbade him. Still he remained calm.

"I am naturally come for—for an explanation," he said.

"I thought that my letter would have relieved me of that necessity," said John Castlemaine.

"I have received no letter."

"I sent one by hand this morning."

"I have not seen it."

Leicester knew by the look on Olive's face that something terrible had happened, and the look nerved him to expect anything.

"In my letter," said John Castlemaine, "I explained why no wedding could take place to-day, why from henceforth my doors must be closed to you."

"You did not say this last night."

"Much has happened since then."

"Nothing can have happened since then to justify such treatment as I have received."

"Perhaps not," replied John Castlemaine quietly, "but information concerning past events has reached me since last night which will justify any treatment."

Leicester's calm was beginning to leave him.

"Olive," he cried, "surely after what was said last night between us you will not——"

"You will kindly address whatever remarks you wish to make to me," interrupted John Castlemaine. "I do not wish my daughter to have any intercourse with you whatever."

"Then will you give me an explanation of—of this—fiasco," said Leicester. He still spoke quietly, but any one could detect the tone of anger that had come into his voice.

"Nothing in the shape of a fiasco exists," said the older man. "Personally, I do not imagine that any explanation is needed, but, for form's sake, I will make it. You were received into this house as a gentleman. I do not think that any of the servants, to say nothing of myself, have ever regarded you in any other light. I am an old-fashioned man, Mr. Leicester, and when I know that a man has acted as no gentleman could or would act, I simply forbid him my house, and I give my servants instructions accordingly."

"Since when have I ceased to have the right to be treated like a gentleman?" asked Leicester.

"Since I knew that you made my daughter the subject of a wager," replied John Castlemaine, with quiet scorn. "Since you wagered a hundred pounds that you would win her as your wife."

The blow had fallen; the blow which Leicester had feared. That which had haunted him for months had come to pass. The truth had leaked out, and both Olive Castlemaine and her father knew the worst. He knew it was no use making any denials, or urging any extenuating circumstances. There was enough of truth in the charge to justify Mr. Castlemaine's every word.

"I do not think I need to say more," went on John Castlemaine. "I see that you quite understand. You cannot wonder therefore that I have nullified all arrangements for—what we expected to take place to-day. That is all, I think. There is no need to prolong an interview which, whatever it is to you, is very painful to me."

But Leicester was not to be put off so easily. He felt that it was for him to confess everything, and then fight to the very last. Besides, he felt he had not been treated fairly. At least he should have been allowed to justify his position before having the door closed in his face.

"However much truth there may be in what you say," he said, speaking still quietly, "I think the right of explanation is due to me. Nay more, I think I might have been allowed to answer whatever charges were made against me before—before the church caretaker had his orders."

"I could not see how any man could desire to make explanations," said John Castlemaine. "Personally, I think I should have thought less badly of you if shame had kept you away. The information I have received was so exact, so convincing, so well authenticated, that there was no room for doubt. Your whole behaviour, your every visit has been an insult to my daughter."

"Insult?"

"Insult. I can use no milder term. Still, you mention explanation. If I gave you no chance to make it before annulling arrangements, I give it now. Much against my will, it is true; but I give it."

The words gave Leicester a ray of light. If this interview was against Mr. Castlemaine's will, then Olive must have influenced him. He turned towards her eagerly.

"You at least will hear me," he said; "you will understand what your father cannot."

"I think I told you to address your remarks to me," said John Castlemaine coldly; "my daughter wishes no further intercourse with you."

During their conversation Olive had remained standing by the fireplace, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the window. Nevertheless, it was evident she had heard all that was said. At her father's words she aroused herself and said:

"No, let him say what he will; it will be interesting."

Leicester felt the scorn of her words. At that moment he felt that she regarded him as a creature beneath contempt. Still, he was fighting for life, nay, more than life.

"I will admit," he said, "that appearances are against me." Here he hesitated like a man who could not find words to express his thoughts. He looked around almost helplessly, but only silence followed his words.

"Who gave you this—this information?" he demanded.

"That is no concern of yours or mine at present," she replied, "seeing even you cannot deny the truth of what my father has repeated."

"There—are extenuating circumstances," he stammered.

"Yes, I suppose there were," she said coldly. "You were drunk; at least I suppose that is the extenuating circumstance to which you refer. While you were in this condition you said that all women were base, and without honour. You said they could be all bought with a price. It seems that my price was the position which you could offer me. Satisfy my ambition, and then I would consent to be the wife of any man who might choose to ask me."

Never until then did he realise the meaning of what he had done. Even in the hours when he had regretted his wager most, he never felt its purport as he felt it then. Her words burnt him like hot iron, but he still spoke quietly.

"You put the case unfairly," he said; "it has never occurred to me in that light."

"Then give it your own version," she said; "as I said, it will be interesting."

He tried to speak, but could not. He tried to think of some means whereby he could put the whole sordid business in a more favourable light, but his tongue refused to obey his will. Nothing but the horrible naked truth as she had put it appeared to him.

She looked up at him scornfully.

"You do not answer," she went on in the same quiet, bitter tones. "You admit, then, that I was the subject of a wager, the wager being that you could satisfy my ambition, and that therefore I could be won as your wife! Of course I feel greatly—honoured. Who would not? I believe that I was suggested by this other—gentleman. Then being thought a fit subject for a wager, my price being a hundred pounds, you set to work to gain admission to this house. Well, I refuse to be utilised in such a way. That is all, I think. I am sure we need not detain you longer."

"No, no, it is not all," said Leicester. "It is not fair to me that I should make my explanations before—others, but you compel me. I must admit that I did participate in this vile business; but I was not myself that night. I was——"

"Yes, you were drunk," said John Castlemaine; "go on."

"I confessed the truth to you," continued Leicester, still keeping his eyes on Olive. "I told you that this habit had grown upon me; but never since—since that night—you remember—have I tasted a drop. But—yes, and you knew my reputation; concerning those things I never deceived you."

Olive was silent.

"It is true I believed that women were all base, and selfish, and sordid," he went on. "Yes, I did, and I did not hide my views. Then when Purvis and Sprague challenged me I confessed my willingness to put them to the test. I told them to choose the best and noblest woman they knew of, and——"

"They chose me," said Olive. "I am greatly honoured."

"I did not know you then," said Leicester; "my acquaintance with women had made me believe that all of them were what I said."

"And yet you were willing to marry one of them," she said quietly.

"No, I would not," he cried. "I simply wanted to prove my words. I would never have married such a woman."

"But you would seek to win her, and after you had won her you would discard her. That is even worse than the other."

"Yes, yes," he said bitterly, "I deserve it all, doubtless. Yes, I was intoxicated if you like, and I made a wager that I would win you as my wife. I did not know you, and I believed that you were like all other women. I was told that it was commonly believed that I should have a brilliant career, and I believed that the prospect of being the wife of a successful parliamentarian would be sufficient to gain your consent to being my wife. Yes, I will confess the whole truth. I believed you to be like the rest of the world; but I did not intend to marry you. I intended to gain your consent, and——"

"And then drag my name into another drunken orgie," she said, and her eyes flashed fire. "My name was to be bandied about in the clubs, I was to be mentioned as one who had proved the truth of Mr. Radford Leicester's exalted views, I was to be pointed out as one who was to be won for a wager, and then discarded when the wager was won."

"No," he cried. "Loathsome as was the whole business, it was not so bad as that. We bound ourselves that no word of the affair should leak out, not one word. Only three men knew of it beside myself. You know whom they were, I daresay. Two of them had proposed to you and had been rejected; the other, as you say, was Winfield here. Whatever had happened, no one would have known had they not told. One of the other two has told you, which I do not know as yet; but I will know—mind that. Perhaps you will tell me?"

Olive was silent.

"Well, that does not matter. I shall find out, yes, I shall find out, and then——" He laughed bitterly, and any one who had looked into his eyes would have seen murder there. "But there is another side to this business, bad as it is, and no one feels its loathsomeness more than I. Let me at least have the opportunity of putting the other side."

For the first time Olive seemed to unbend a little. She did not speak, but she seemed ready, nay, even eager, to hear what he had to say.

"Let me say this, then," said Leicester. "Almost ever since the first time I saw you I have repented of the whole business. It has haunted me night and day. When I came to know you, and to realise how noble and true you were, I scorned, I loathed myself. I would have given anything to have undone what had been done. I dared not tell you, for I feared you would drive me from your presence. No man honours a woman more than I honour you, no man believes in a woman's nobility and honour more than I believe in yours. As I said, as soon as I saw you I loathed what had taken place, for I loved you."

"You mean," said Olive, "that you no longer came here because of your desire to win this wager, but——"

"Because I loved you," said Leicester eagerly. He forgot the presence of Winfield, and John Castlemaine. Only he and Olive were together, the others did not exist. "Yes, that is true, I came only for you. More than once I was tempted to tell you everything; but I was a coward—I was afraid. I had learnt that you were a proud woman, and I felt sure that if I told you, you would drive me from your presence. And I could not bear the thought of it, Olive. You are everything to me, life, hope, heaven! You know you are—yes, you know it. As for the other business, I hated it, as I hated myself when I thought of it. My great desire was to drive it from my mind. Surely you believe this, Olive—you must! Yes, I deserve all you have said—all and more; but now that you know the truth, now that you know what was begun in ghastly farce has ended in terrible reality, now you know that all my life is bound up in you, you only, you will forgive, will you not?"

Olive Castlemaine never took her eyes from him as he spoke, she seemed to be trying to read his inmost thoughts. Once or twice her face softened as he spoke, as though she wanted to yield to his pleading, but when he had finished she hesitated.

"This is true?" she said quietly. "Every word is true, is it not?"

"By all I hold sacred it is true," he cried. "I had not known you a week before I loathed the business, and cast it from me as I would cast a serpent from me. I thought of you only, because I loved you more than ever man loved woman, because the very thought of life was unbearable without you."

"Then there is another question I would ask you," she said.