Pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, Shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself—there is no fire in the grate—nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. His steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantel-shelf; a sparkling object—in short, a cigar-case of the beaded pattern.

Why should that attract the attention of the young Herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? In his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. But it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it, on the instant after reaching towards and taking it up.

Ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case—he is now sure as he holds it in his hand, turning it over and over—seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures—two hearts central, transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft—all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. Many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. Now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials V. R. entwined in a monogram, and the words underneath "From Gwen."

Three days ago the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. Not so now. After being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. He but tosses the beaded thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself.

Still, the little incident is not without effect. It restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. This is still further strengthened as Ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. A man feared, but not hated, for Shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. A rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. No tremor in his frame, no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in his hand, coming towards him.

Long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. Holding out the card, Ryecroft says interrogatively—

"Is this meant for me, Mr. Shenstone?"

"Yes."

"Some matter of business, I presume. May I ask what it is?"

The formal inquiry, in a tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. At the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder.

"I want to know—what you have done with Miss Wynn."

He so challenged starts aback, turning pale, and looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed—

"What I have done with Miss Wynn!" Then adding, "Pray explain yourself, sir!"

"Come, Captain Ryecroft, you know what I allude to."

"For the life of me I don't."

"Do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?"

"What's happened! When? Where?"

"At Llangorren, the night of that ball. You were present—I saw you."

"And I saw you, Mr. Shenstone. But you don't tell me what happened."

"Not at the ball, but after."

"Well, and what after?"

"Captain Ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or the most guilty on the face of the earth."

"Stop, sir! Language like yours requires justification of the gravest kind. I ask an explanation—demand it!"

Thus brought to bay, George Shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed, there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. Instead, honest surprise, mingled with keen apprehension; the last, not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. Intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: "This man knows nothing of Gwendoline Wynn. If she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer."

"Captain Ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if I've been wronging you, I ask forgiveness, and you'll forgive; for if I have, you do not, cannot know what has occurred."

"I've told you I don't," affirms Ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. "For Heaven's sake, Mr. Shenstone, explain! What has occurred there?"

"Miss Wynn is gone away!"

"Miss Wynn gone away! But whither?"

"Nobody knows. All that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one; no trace left behind—except——"

"Except what?"

"A ring—a diamond cluster. I found it myself in the summer-house. You know the place—you know the ring, too?"

"I do, Mr. Shenstone; have reasons—painful ones. But I am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. What could it mean?" he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. It connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "But, sir, please proceed! For God's sake keep nothing back; tell me everything!"

Thus appealed to, Shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at Llangorren Court—all that had transpired previous to his leaving, and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in Boulogne.

The manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained.

"Mr. Shenstone," returns Ryecroft, "you ask what I am ready and willing to grant—God knows how ready, how willing. If any misfortune has befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be greater than mine."

Shenstone is convinced. Ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to Gwendoline Wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own.

He stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his intrusion—which are accepted without anger—he bows himself back into the street.

The business of his travelling companion in Boulogne was over some time ago. His is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new light on the mystery of Miss Wynn's disappearance, still with some satisfaction to himself he dares not dwell upon. Where is the man who would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a rival? However ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy—too natural, as George Shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow. Too late to catch the Folkestone packet, his bed is in Boulogne—no bed of roses, but a couch of Procrustean.

Meanwhile, Captain Ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the Major has been awaiting him. Impatiently, though not in the interim unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to examination. They are the "best barkers that can be got in Boulogne."

"We shan't need them, Major, after all."

"The devil we shan't! He's shown the white feather?"

"No, Mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood before sword-point, or dared pistol bullet."

"Then there's no trouble between you?"

"Ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. Sorrow shared by both. We're in the same boat."

"In that case, why didn't you bring him in?"

"I didn't think of it."

"Well, we'll drink his health. And since you say you've both embarked in the same boat—a bad one—here's to your reaching a good haven, and in safety!"

"Thanks, Major! The haven I now want to reach, and intend entering ere another sun sets, is the harbour of Folkestone."

The Major almost drops his glass.

"Why, Ryecroft, you're surely joking?"

"No, Mahon; I'm in earnest—dead, anxious earnest."

"Well, I wonder! No, I don't," he adds, correcting himself. "A man needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. May the devil take her who's taking you away from me!"

"Major Mahon!"

"Well—well, old boy! Don't be angry. I meant nothing personal, knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind, and so soon leaving me. Let my sorrow at that be my excuse."

"You shall be told it this night—now!"

In another hour Major Mahon is in possession of all that relates to Gwendoline Wynn, known to Vivian Ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to England, nor doing aught to detain him. Instead, he counsels his immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for Folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that well-timed grip in the ditch of Delhi, exclaiming,

"God bless you, old boy! Whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend, and a bit of a tent to shelter you in Boulogne—not forgetting a little comfort from the crayther!"