As John Temple entered the library, Mr. Churchill, who was standing by the fireplace, looked quickly up in his face, and then crossed the room to meet him.

“Well, Mr. Temple,” he said, “I heard you had arrived last night, so I rode over early this morning to ask if May is with you?”

He had fixed to say this during his ride to the Hall, and he blurted it out in the forced way that prepared speeches are often made.

“Unhappily she is not,” answered John Temple, in a low voice, and with downcast eyes.

“Not with you! That’s odd; then where did you leave her?”

For a moment Temple did not speak; a quiver passed over his face, and his lips trembled.

“Mr. Churchill,” he began, and then he paused.

“Well, Mr. Temple, what is this mystery about?” now asked Mr. Churchill, sharply. “I know you are married to her, so what is wrong?”

“We quarreled and she has left me,” said Temple, forcing himself to utter the words. “She left me without a line, or word—I can not tell you where she is.”

“Can not tell me where she is! Quarreled with you and left you!” repeated Mr. Churchill in the utmost astonishment. “Mr. Temple, I can not believe such an incredible story.”

“Yet it is most unhappily true, Mr. Churchill. I would give everything I possess in the world to be able to tell you more—to tell you where she is.”

Temple’s voice broke and faltered as he uttered the last words, and Mr. Churchill looked at him in absolute amazement and consternation.

“And do you mean to tell me,” he said, in a hard, angry voice, “that this girl, who was so fond of you that she left her home for you, has forsaken you after a few months of marriage? I can not, I will not believe it; you are keeping something back.”

“An incident came to May’s ears—an incident of my early life,” faltered Temple.

“About some woman, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Churchill.

“Unfortunately about a woman, and—and after that we quarreled, and she left me. She did not tell me she was going; she gave me no hint, or I should never have left her alone. But one night when I returned to our hotel I found she was gone, and though I sought her everywhere, though I put it into the hands of the police, no trace of her, no reliable trace at least, has ever been heard of her, and sometimes—I fear the worst.”

Here Temple broke down; he covered his face with his hand; his agitation was unmistakable.

“You mean that my girl has put an end to herself, though you may have given her great cause for quarreling with you and leaving you? Then I don’t believe it, sir, I tell you that.” And Mr. Churchill struck his hand heavily down on the writing-table as he spoke. “She may have left you, I suppose she has, but she had too much spirit, my May had, to take her life for any such folly.”

“If I could only hope this.”

“You may not only hope it, but be sure of it! But this must be investigated at once. I’ll move heaven and earth to find my girl; ay, and I’ll find her!”

“Would to God that you could.”

“I will; there, I’ve said it, and I seldom say what I do not do. When and how did she disappear? Who saw her last? Tell me everything.”

Then John Temple, in broken and faltering words, did tell Mr. Churchill everything he knew of May’s disappearance. Only he kept back the true cause. He gave him the address of the inspector of the police who had conducted the inquiry; he told even the cabman’s story of the lady he had driven to Westminster bridge. But Mr. Churchill would not listen to any such suggestion that May had taken her young life.

“You may have broken her heart, perhaps you have,” he said, harshly, “but my lass was no weak fool to destroy herself for a worthless man! No, she is hiding herself somewhere, and her father will find her. But it’s a pity, Mr. Temple,” he added, bitterly, “that you did not leave her alone.”

“I loved her very dearly. Since she left me my life has been one unending regret.”

“Yet you let another woman come between you! This may be the way of fine gentlemen, but my poor girl, I suppose, would not stand it.”

Temple did not speak; he stood there facing the angry man before him; his heart was full of shame and pain.

“The long and the short of it is, I suppose,” continued Mr. Churchill, “that May believed that you had ceased to love her; or had never loved her as she thought you had, and so she left you. But she should have written to her father! If I had not positively ascertained that you were married to her, if I had not seen the register of your marriage with my own eyes, I would have found you both out long before this. However, as it is—”

“Go to whatever expense you like, Mr. Churchill; find May, and you will lift a weight off my heart that is almost too heavy to bear.”

John Temple spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and Mr. Churchill could not but believe him.

“It’s a queer business,” he said; “if you were fond of her why did you not stick to her? But I’ll start to-night for London.”

“Let me hear from you every day; I will join you if you like.”

“No, I’m best alone; I’m more likely to find her alone. But what am I to go back and say at home?”

“Say anything; what matter is it?”

“But it is matter to me, Mr. Temple! I’ll say you’ve had a difference, and I’m going to London to try to make it up—yes, that will do, and I must make it up.”

Mr. Churchill left the Hall shortly after this, and John Temple returned to the morning-room, where Mrs. Temple was eagerly awaiting him.

“Well,” she said, excitedly, “is he gone? What did you tell him?”

“What you bade me; I told him everything—except why she—”

“Left you? That was right. Oh! I’m so glad, so glad, John Temple, you did not tell him that.”

“It will probably come out.”

“It may and it may not. At all events you may not be here if it does; it is a thousand times best kept quiet. And what is Mr. Churchill going to do?”

“He is going to London—going, I fear, on a vain search.”

“That may not be also. Come, we must hope for the best.”

But John Temple only sadly shook his head. It remained his fixed idea that May was dead, as he believed she had loved him too well to live apart from him.

But he felt grateful to Mrs. Temple for her kindness and consideration for his feelings; grateful perhaps that she had spared him telling May’s father all the bitter truth. And Mrs. Temple told the same story to her mother. Mrs. Layton, we may be sure, was not long in arriving at the Hall, but her daughter would not allow her to see John Temple.

“You worry him, and he and his wife have quarreled about some old love of his or other, and she has actually left him,” she said.

“Left him!” cried Mrs. Layton, triumphantly. “I knew no good would come of it; no good ever does come of unequal marriages. But I don’t believe she has left him; I believe he has left her.”

Mrs. Temple shrugged her shoulders.

“At all events they have parted,” she said; “and naturally he does not wish to be asked any questions on the subject, so while he is here please do not come.”

Mrs. Layton drew her meager little form up to its full height.

“Rachel, is it possible,” she said, “that you forbid your mother to the house?”

“It is John Temple’s house now, not mine, and he does not wish to be worried; so please stay away,” replied Mrs. Temple, coolly; and Mrs. Layton departed, feeling that “a judgment” was sure to descend on her daughter’s head.

Mrs. Temple told John Temple of this quarrel, and laughed a little scornfully at the recollection of it.

“My mother is a woman,” she said, “on whom all delicacy of feeling is wasted, for she has none;” and John Temple certainly agreed with her.

But on the third day after his arrival at Woodlea something occurred which worried and disturbed him more than twenty visits from Mrs. Layton. It was a fine spring day and Mrs. Temple had gone out for a drive, but John Temple had refused to accompany her. However, about four o’clock, tempted by the sunshine, he lit a cigar and strolled out into the park.

He walked on moodily enough with bent head, when his attention was attracted by the sound of carriage wheels approaching down the avenue. He supposed it would be Mrs. Temple returning from her drive, and so he walked on. But when the carriage drew nearer and he was about to meet it, he saw it was not one of the Hall carriages, but evidently a hired one. He therefore turned hastily into a side path, for he was in no mood to encounter strangers. Then he heard the carriage stop, and a few moments later, when he again looked around, he perceived a lady on the side path, who was evidently following him.

He stopped, and for an instant the thought, the wild hope, crossed his brain, could it be May? But no; the lady who was approaching him, though closely veiled, was taller than the slender girlish form of his lost love. She advanced quickly, and in another minute they met; and John Temple started back as they did so.

For it was the woman to whom he had not spoken for long years; the woman he had wedded in his early youth, and whose existence had been a curse and a stumbling-block in his way!

“You!” he said, sternly. “Why are you here?”

“From a natural feeling of curiosity,” answered the actress, who bore the professional name of Kathleen Weir. “I wished to see you in your new home!” And she gave a little laugh.

“It is useless—” began John Temple; but with a little airy wave of her hand she interrupted him.

“Pardon me,” she said, “it may be very useful to us both. I have come with a purpose; a purpose which I am quite sure will be a welcome one to you; I want you to help me to get rid of you.”

Again she laughed, and then flung back her veil and stood looking steadily at the husband who had forsaken her. She was a handsome woman, but John Temple saw no beauty in the large, bright, restless gray eyes; in the mocking, saucy lips.

“I do not understand you,” he answered, coldly.

“Not yet; but you will by and by. So this is your new inheritance?” she continued, looking round at the wooded park, with the fine gray old mansion standing in its midst. “My friend John, I had no idea I had made such a good match,” she added, mockingly.

“If you have come to talk thus, our interview must end.”

“What! grudge me a word or two, after these long years? Well, come, that is mean of you. But I have not come to talk nonsense, but sense. I have come, in fact, to talk business.”

“I suppose you want your allowance increased?”

Kathleen Weir nodded.

“That I certainly do,” she said, “and my terms have gone up since I have seen what a fine place you have got. But it is not only about my allowance I want to talk; I want to know if we can not arrange a divorce between us?”

John Temple looked at her quickly.

“My bait takes, I see,” went on Kathleen Weir, coolly. “Now, you can’t get a divorce from me; I’ve been too careful for that; perhaps too cold, for a burnt child dreads the fire; or maybe I was too prudent to run the risk of losing my allowance. No, you can not get a divorce from me; now, the question is, can I get one from you?”

John Temple was silent; he looked down, he moved his hands impatiently.

“By the wonderful justice which the male law-givers deal out to women, I am perfectly aware that you could run away with anyone; with a dozen if you had a mind to, and I could get no redress unless you had committed some act, or acts, of cruelty, to which I could swear. Now, to be free, I am ready to swear falsely; I am ready to swear that you tore handfuls of hair out of my head, and I have a false tress or two out of which you can tear them—if you will make it worth my while.”

“What do you mean?”

“My friend John, you are a rich man now, and I’ve no doubt will be ready to pay handsomely for your liberty. You wish, I suppose, to be free of me, and be able to marry someone else?”

“Some months ago,” answered John Temple, with quick emotion, “I would have given anything to have been so—now it is too late.”

“Why is it too late?”

“It is useless to tell you; to tell you how our miserable marriage spoilt a young life.”

“But is it spoilt? And even if it is, I think you should show a little consideration for me. I am tired of leading the life I lead; I want someone to care a little for me. I wish, in fact, to be divorced from you.”

“Do you wish to marry again?”

“Well, if you will have it so, I think I do. But then, you know, you must consider my position. You talk of a spoilt life, but you spoilt and wasted my youth.”

“It is easy to put it so,” said John Temple, bitterly.

“Well, you married me and left me, did you not?”

“We agreed to part.”

“Yes, after you had made my life so unpleasant that there was no standing it. But I don’t want to fight, or say disagreeable things. I really want to come to an arrangement with you, an arrangement by which you will benefit by being free; and I shall benefit by being free also—only you must remember you are a rich man.”

John Temple was silent for a moment or two; he was turning it over in his mind whether to accept her proposition; then he remembered he had not told Mr. Churchill of his marriage to Kathleen Weir, that he could not be divorced without this being publicly known.

“Now I’ll be quite frank with you,” she went on, looking at his moody face. “I’ll want either a lump sum down, or a largely increased allowance for swearing falsely and exhibiting in court the three handsful of beautiful hair that you tore out of my unfortunate head. You must pay, you see, for these little freaks of temper.”

“Your jesting is out of place.”

“Not at all, my friend; life has always its comical side. For instance, it is comical my coming here to make a sensible bargain with you, instead of talking of my broken heart.”

“I presume it is not broken.”

“No, it is not, thank goodness. It is a tough heart, and a man’s inconstancy and changeableness will never even make a crack in it. For me to love and grieve now,” and she looked at him straight, “a man must be worth loving and grieving for.”

“What is the bargain that you want to make, then?” asked John Temple, impatiently, a moment later.

“It is this: You are a rich man now, and I am your wife, so I ought to be a rich woman also. I have a right, you know, to come here if I choose; to claim you before your new friends; in fact, to make myself generally disagreeable. But I don’t want to do this. I have my own ideas of happiness, and it is not to force my company on an unwilling man. But if you will give me ten thousand pounds I will bring an action of divorce against you; I will show the hair you tore out of my head, and swear to a black bruise or two on my arms, and perhaps a little playful box on my ears. Mind, I am not jesting, though I talk as if I were.”

“And if I refuse your modest request?”

“Oh, well, then I must have a big allowance; and I will talk to everyone of my husband, Mr. John Temple of Woodlea Hall, and I will buy diamonds and have them put down to you; in fact, it will be worse for you than if you give me ten thousand pounds and were done with me. I really advise you to think it over.”

And John Temple actually stood and did think it over.

“Let me have time to consider,” he said, at length.

“Which means you will accept my terms,” cried Kathleen Weir, triumphantly. “I’m so glad. I really feel quite friendly toward you, and we must help each other in this business, you know, and keep our own secrets, and no one will ever be the wiser.”

John Temple made no answer; he was thinking that he would in truth be glad to be free, and yet—

“I’ll see about getting a good man to manage the case,” went on Kathleen Weir, “and I will write to you, and we must get up the evidence, you know, and have everything on the square. We’ll hoodwink the dear old judge, and I will play the injured wife to such perfection that it will be one of my best parts. I’m glad I came to see you, but you’re not looking well, my friend; you are not as good-looking as you were. Well, never mind, someone, I dare say, will think you good-looking enough, particularly when she sees your grand house; though, by the by, you have not yet asked me into it.”

“My uncle’s widow is there, but—”

“Oh! never mind; I brought a luncheon basket with me from town, as I did not know whether I could depend on your hospitality; and, besides, it might look like collusion if we were caught hobnobbing together. No one knows of my visit here, and no one need know of it. I will go straight back to town by the next train, and will write all particulars to you as soon as I have arranged my case, and, as I said before, I shall depend on your friendly assistance. So now if you will escort me back to the very shaky hired carriage that I picked up at the station, I will take leave of Woodlea Hall—and its new owner.”

Again she laughed and showed her white teeth, and without another word John Temple walked by her side back to the carriage which was waiting for her in the avenue, and when they reached it he handed her in.

“Good-by,” she said, holding his hand for a moment and looking at him smilingly. “Make a better choice the second time; you are a man who should marry a woman who thinks you perfection—I never did!”

Then she nodded, smiled again, and was driven away.