Leicester, whose heart was again beating with hope, took a step nearer to her as she spoke.

"I will answer any question you ask me, Olive," he said; "let everything come to light."

"I wish to know," she said calmly, "if what you say is true, why you told the others that you were only seeking to marry me to prove your wager."

"It is a lie," said Leicester; "I never told them."

"Less than two months ago you told them. After our wedding-day had been fixed you told them. You met them in your club, in the same room where I was first discussed. The two others, and this—gentleman. They besought you to give up this"—Olive hesitated as though the very thought stung her—"this wager. But you insisted on paying the money yourself—this hundred pounds, the price at which I was valued. They urged you, I repeat, and you refused. They asked you whether you had become reformed in your opinions and you denied it. Then they accused you of still playing a part to obtain my consent to marry you, that you might win your wager. And you admitted it."

"That is a lie."

"I happen to remember the words that were used," said Olive, speaking in the same hard, quiet voice. "One of them said to you, it does not matter which, but one of them used these words after you had made certain statements: 'Then you have been simply playing a part with Miss Castlemaine?' and you replied, 'And if I have, what is that to you?' Then this man said, 'You admit it then? All this teetotalism, this tone of moral earnestness which you have introduced into your speeches, it is all to win your wager?' And then you answered, 'And if it is, have I ever pretended to believe in any of the whining sentimentality of the world? Have I not all along insisted that it was a matter of price?' Then these men said I ought to know, whereupon you threatened them with terrible punishment if they dared to tell me. Do you pretend to deny this?"

"I deny everything," said Leicester sullenly. The resurrection of the past, the destruction of his happiness had unhinged his mind. He scarcely knew what he was saying, the ground seemed to be dug from under his feet.

"I wondered whether you were base enough to deny that," she said; "I even hoped that you were not, but after I had learnt what I have learnt I dared not believe. My informant asked me to appeal to Mr. Winfield to verify the truth of this, that was why I told the servant to bring him with you. Mr. Winfield, have I described exactly what took place? Did this man say the words I have repeated?"

Winfield, who had been listening like a man in a dream, felt himself unable to speak. He could not, with Olive's eyes upon him, tell a lie, and say that what had been told her was false, neither could he, as he saw the deathly pallor on Leicester's face, and the fearful look in his eyes, confess the truth.

"You do not speak, Mr. Winfield," she said; "even you cannot support your friend. Still, if I have misjudged him, it is right that you should tell the truth. Did he, or did he not say these things?"

"I am sure he did not mean them," said Winfield tamely.

"Thank you; now then, go, Mr. Leicester."

Leicester started like a man who had been stung.

"You surely do not mean that," he cried. "No, no, Olive, you cannot mean that."

"The disgrace of being the subject of hundreds of gossiping tongues, as I am at this moment, is nothing to this disgrace of being the subject of a wager among drunken men. Do you think I could ever speak to you again after knowing what I know? Even now I feel contaminated by being in your presence. It is like poison to me. Your every word has been proved to be lies, your protestations worthy of the creed you profess. Go, then, and may God forgive you for the pain you have caused."

But Leicester never moved.

"If I were a man," she said, "I would throw you out of the house; and but for the fact that the servants would talk, I would ring for them at this moment, that you might be treated as such as you deserve. As it is, seeing you have not shame enough to leave such a house as this for the telling, I will leave the room myself."

Leicester lost control of himself. The man's sky had become as black as night; all he regarded as worth living for had been destroyed in an hour.

"You shall not go," he cried, "that is, you shall not go until I have explained those words which were uttered in a fit of madness."

"Explain? yes, doubtless you would explain, if I would sully my ears by listening; but I will not. Moreover, see to it that you never dare to cross my path again."

"I dare anything," he cried, "anything, everything. No, you shall not get away from me so easily. Oh, yes, I remember, and you remember, too, the promise which you made last night. You said then, that whatever might happen, you would never marry another man. Surely you, with your fine notions, will never break your promise?"

He was beside himself, or he would never have uttered such words. He saw, moreover, that the arrow had gone home; a look of pain shot across her face.

"Oh, yes, I've got you," he went on wildly, "and I will hold you to your words, too. If ever you dream of marrying another man, I will tell him what you said. Yes, I will do that and more, and——"

"Let me pass," she cried; "as though I could ever dream of marrying an honourable man after promising to be the wife of such as you. Stand aside, or I will call the servants."

But she had no need to make this threat. Her words had crushed him too completely. He obeyed her like a frightened child, and then watched her with a dazed look in his eyes as she walked out of the room.

"Now go," said John Castlemaine, as he rang the bell. A servant appeared, and Radford Leicester walked out of the house with the black night of hell in his heart.

The carriage was still waiting, and both men entered it without a word.

"Where to, sir?" asked the coachman.

But Leicester did not reply, indeed he did not know the man had spoken.

"Where to, sir?" repeated the driver in a louder voice.

Winfield mentioned the name of a station which they had come from that morning. For two miles they rode in silence, then Leicester turned and looked at his companion.

"Are you doing anything particular this afternoon, Winfield?" he said.

"No. Nothing in particular."

"Then come back with me to the club, will you?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"Thank you." And again he looked out of the carriage window in a way that made Winfield sorry he had given his promise.

After they had got into the train, and were on their way back to London, Leicester spoke again.

"Winfield," he said, "do you think she meant what she said? that is, do you think she will ever be led to change her mind?"

"All things are possible," said Winfield.

"Yes, but do you think she will?"

"No," said Winfield, "I do not believe she ever will." He was sorry, after he had spoken, that he had not fenced with the question, so terrible was the look in Leicester's eyes.

"Ah," he replied, "I was only curious to know what you thought. I have always looked upon you as a level-headed fellow."

"I think," said Winfield, "that her pride was wounded, that she was very angry at being made the subject of a wager. What woman wouldn't? Then that conversation we had together a few weeks ago was made to look very black. Of course you might write a letter, giving a full explanation. By to-morrow she will be able to see things in a clearer light."

"No," said Leicester, "she never will."

Winfield was silent.

"Still, I'll write the letter."

"I should."

"I'll write it as soon as we get back to the club. I'll state the whole truth. I ought to have done it before."

"It would have been best. But who would have thought that those two fellows would have——"

"Don't talk about them yet, Winfield. Please don't—if—if—but never mind that now."

The man's face was contorted with passion, but he spoke quietly, almost coldly. Winfield shivered as he spoke, however. If ever murder burned in a man's eyes, it burned in Leicester's at that moment.

Directly they arrived at the club, he seized a pen and wrote rapidly, while Winfield remained near him smoking a cigar. Page after page was covered with Leicester's bold, clear writing; when he had finished he passed what he had written to Winfield.

"It's mean of me to bother you," he said, "but I'm quite bowled over. I hardly know whether I've set everything down exactly as it occurred. Would you mind reading what I've written and tell me whether I've made the whole affair plain?"

Winfield read the letter from the first word to the last.

"Yes," he said; "nothing could be more clearly stated. Nothing could be more plain or straight-forward."

"Thank you. I wanted to be sure I was in my right mind. I'll not trouble you with the rest of the letter."

Again he wrote; and this time it was evident by the look on his face that he was setting down what was only for Olive Castlemaine's eyes. As a matter of fact, he was pleading with her as only a desperate man can plead. He threw his pride to the winds, and prayed her mercy and her forgiveness.

"What time is it?" he said, when he had finished.

"Three o'clock," said Winfield, looking at his watch, "and I've had no lunch."

"No; you expected—that is, we expected to——I say, Winfield, I'm going to send this by hand."

"Wait until to-morrow."

"No; to-morrow is an eternity. I must send it now. Great God! you don't know what this means to me. Get your lunch, Winfield; I'll be back presently."

He left the room as he spoke, while Winfield went into the dining-room.

"Poor beggar," said the young man as he examined the menu, "he's got it bad, and no wonder; for it was a knock-down blow. Well, it must be kept out of the papers, anyhow."

When he had nearly finished his lunch Leicester joined him.

"I've sent it off," he said, "and have told the man to wait for an answer."

"Better if you'd waited until to-morrow," said Winfield.

"I couldn't, man. Most likely she'll go away somewhere to-night—that is—unless—you know. If I'd waited until to-morrow, she'd never have got my letter, she'd be on the way to the Continent, or—heaven knows where. No, I've done right."

"Perhaps you have. Anyhow, sit down and get some lunch. A man must eat, you know."

"I could just as easily fly. Ah, and that reminds me. Winfield, let's go for a ride out in the country. We can get a couple of horses at Bilson's. He has a mad mare that I want to ride. She's a fearful creature, and scarcely any one dares to mount her. I must do something to keep the devil out of me."

"Very well. I'm just in the humour for a gallop; but get some lunch, old man."

"Come on, if you have finished. We can get to Wimbledon Common in an hour—in less than an hour. Then we will give those horses of Bilson's a chance to know what they can do."

"But we must get some riding togs on, old man. You can't go a-riding with a frock coat, and a top hat."

"Oh, I forgot; but that's soon remedied. We can be back by seven or eight o'clock, and by that time there should be—an answer."

A few minutes later, they were on their way towards Wimbledon Common. But for Winfield, Leicester would have galloped through the crowded streets, and more than once he was on the point of resenting his companion's restrictions. When they arrived at the open country, however, he gave his horse rein, and tore across the Common, while Winfield kept close at his heels.

"I wish I could ride to Brighton," said Leicester presently. "This helps me to keep the devil down."

"Why not?" said Winfield.

"I must get back now," he replied. "There will be an answer to my letter. It may be—you see—she is very just."

"What does a man want of women while he has a good horse under him, the open sky above him, and the country all around him?" asked Winfield, with a laugh.

"What does a man want with heaven when he's been living in hell?" asked Leicester.

"As you will, Leicester," said his companion; "but take my advice. Don't expect—too much, and make up your mind to have a good time, whatever may happen."

Leicester laughed, and it was the laugh of a madman.

"Do you believe in the devil, Winfield?" he said.

"I don't see that the devil has anything to do with it," replied the other. "We are young, we have life before us, and——"

But Leicester did not listen to him further. He struck his spurs into his horse's sides, and the animal tore off at a mad gallop. Winfield's horse started to follow, but the young man held him back. "Let him go," he said to himself, "he's better without me. I've made a mistake evidently, and, great heavens! I don't like to think of what will happen."

Winfield watched the other, who galloped wildly across the broad open space, and then waited while he rode the mad passion out of himself.

When Leicester returned, half an hour later, there was a quieter look in his eyes, his face looked more natural.

"I thought you'd gone, Winfield," he said; "let's get back to town. What a wedding-day I'm having, eh?"

Both their horses were black with sweat when they returned them to the job-master from whom they had borrowed them, but Leicester did not wait to listen to the man's remarks. He hurried back to the club, and went straight to the office.

"Any letters for me?" he asked.

A number were handed to him which had come through the post.

"Not these," he said impatiently. "Has one come by private messenger?"

"Oh yes, I had forgotten. Here it is, sir."

He took the letter. Yes, it was addressed in Olive Castlemaine's hand-writing, and without a word he rushed straight to his bedroom. He wanted to be alone. Feverishly he turned on the electric light, and then broke the seal. The envelope contained nothing but his own unopened letter.

For some time he stood still. No sound, no movement did he make. He felt now that the last thread which held him to hope was broken, and yet he could not realise what it meant. Ever since he had left The Beeches that morning, he had lived in a kind of trance. The blow which had fallen had to an extent paralysed him. Everything seemed a long way off, even although he knew that a tragedy had taken place in his own life. Presently, however, it became real to him. Hope was gone, joy was gone, purpose was gone. The sun had gone down on his wedding-day, and it had also gone down on his life. There was no light anywhere. For years he had lived a hopeless life, for years he had been chained by a degrading habit, for years he had ceased to believe in God, in virtue—in anything that made life worth the living. Then a new force had come into his life. Hope, faith, and more than all, love had sprung up in his heart. The world had become new, and he knew what heaven meant. Then, when the day had come on which all his desires were to be fully realised, black ruin had fallen. The new-born hope and faith were destroyed in an hour. No ray of light appeared anywhere.

"Leicester, old man, may I come in?" It was Winfield who spoke.

"No—yes—that is, who are you?"

"It is I, Winfield."

"Come in."

Winfield entered, and he had no need to be told what had happened. For this reason he asked no questions, he only said:

"Come and have some dinner, Leicester."

"Look," said Leicester, showing him the unopened letter.

"Yes, I see, old man. Come and have some dinner."

"Good," replied Leicester feverishly, "that's it, dinner! Haven't I always maintained that there was no love affair in the world but could be cured by a good dinner and a bottle of champagne? We'll prove it old man. Dinner, that's it; and afterwards—we'll make a night of it somewhere."

A new light had come into his eyes, and even Winfield, who was no saint, saw that it was evil.

"I haven't touched a drop of whisky for months," went on Leicester. "I've been a whining dog, running at the heels of—but there, I'll make up for lost time to-night. Come on, Winfield!"

"Hadn't we better dress for dinner?" said Winfield. "I always keep some dress clothes here at the club."

"Hang dressing! Let's go as we are; how can we be better dressed for a drinking bout than in riding attire? Tally ho! my boy. 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' That's the proper spirit, isn't it? I've been a sort of a dog led by a string for the last few months, now I am free again. I was becoming the kind of man that every one should despise, a whining sentimentalist. I had actually begun to talk about the moral aspect of things. What of that? It's never too late to mend, eh, Winfield? Off with the trappings, have done with shams, Richard's himself again! Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."

His face was still pale, but his eyes shone with a mad light.

"But we can't go down like this, Leicester, we may as well——"

"All right, have your own way. I'll join you in five minutes. 'The apparel oft proclaims the man,' therefore let us be respectable. Respectable, oh, I'll let some of 'em know what respectability means."

Winfield left the room deep in thought. He was a man of the world, but he was sorry to see how Leicester was taking his blow. He would rather have seen him give way to grief, or make threats of vengeance.

A few minutes later they met in the dining-room. Both were in faultless attire, although Winfield noticed that his friend's mood had not changed.

"The club dinner," said Leicester to the waiter, "and let us have it at once."

"Yes, sir. What'll you take to drink, sir?"

"Drink! Oh, whisky and soda. Bring a large bottle of each."

The waiter went away. He had heard that Leicester was to have been married that day, and he naturally wondered what he was doing there; but of course he showed no surprise.

"By the way, Leicester," said Winfield, as he toyed with a piece of bread on the table, "I've been thinking that things may not be so bad as we thought."

"Oh, chuck it, Winfield. I've learnt my lesson. I've been a fool, but I'll not close my eyes to facts any longer."

"She may love you still," persisted the other.

"Woman's love! I was right in the old days. It's all a matter of price; only I made a mistake about the price. I didn't reckon upon a woman's vanity—that's all."

"Well, let us meet facts fairly. It was natural that she should be mad. When a high-minded girl like Miss Castlemaine——"

"High-minded! Don't talk such drivel."

"Yes, I repeat, high-minded. When she is told that the engagement was a matter of a wager, and when, after the wedding-day was fixed, you admitted that it was still a matter of winning the wager, then——"

"What are you driving at? I say, I'll kick up a row about the management of this club. That whisky has been ordered at least three minutes, and it's not brought yet."

"I'm driving at this. She was mad, and her madness was justifiable, but by to-morrow she'll have calmed down. I told you it was too soon for you to send that letter. If I were you I'd go down again to-morrow, and I'll warrant she'll be in a different frame of mind."

Winfield was wanting to gain time. He knew that if the whisky came while Leicester was in his present mood, nothing would stop him from fulfilling his threat.

"She returned my letter unopened. She did not deign to read a word."

"Yes, and it was quite natural; but give her breathing space, old man. She's a proud girl, you know that, and well—she would not listen to reason. But through to-night she'll be lonely. She'll be thinking of the past. She'll recall many things which hadn't occurred to her in her anger. To-morrow, mark my word, she'll be longing to see you."

The waiter came, bringing a bottle of whisky, and placed it on the table, but Leicester did not touch it.

Winfield sent the waiter away on some trifling commission, and then he went on:

"If I were you, I would not start drinking to-night. You might be mistaken, you know, and if you are——"

Leicester rose to his feet hurriedly.

"I can't eat, Winfield, and I can't sit down to the mockery of a dinner. I'm going somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Probably to throw myself in the Thames. Sorry to be such a fool, old man. A good appetite to you."

He rushed out of the club, and did not return till past midnight; but when he returned he showed no signs of drinking.

The next morning he started for The Beeches again.