Mrs. Vane left Parker at the hotel with a message for the General, should he appear, that she was going to her dentist's and thence to her brother's lodgings. But she and Sabina Meldreth went straight to Scotland Yard and had an interview with one of the police authorities.

Mrs. Vane's statement was clear and concise. She was complimented on the cleverness that she had displayed; and Sabina was shown a photograph of Andrew Westwood taken while he was at Portland. She could not be quite so certain that it was Mr. Dare as Flossy would have desired her to be; but the evidence was on the whole so far conclusive, that it was determined to arrest Mrs. Gunn's lodger on suspicion. If he could give a satisfactory account of himself, and if he could not be identified, he would of course have to be set free again; but it seemed possible, if not probable, that Reuben Dare was the very man for whom the police had searched so vainly and so long. A cab was summoned, and an inspector of police as well as a detective in plain clothes and a constable politely followed Sabina into it. Mrs. Vane thought it more becoming to her position not to assist at the arrest. She therefore remained behind, unable to resist the temptation of awaiting their return with the prisoner.She waited for nearly two hours. Then the cab came back again, and out of it emerged two police-officers and Sabina; but no detective, and no Reuben Dare. Flossy's heart beat quickly with a mixture of rage and fear. Had she taken all this trouble for nothing, and had Reuben Dare given a satisfactory account of himself after all?

"The bird has flown, ma'am," said the inspector, entering the office where she sat, with a rather crestfallen air. "He must have got some notion of what was in the wind; for he went out this morning soon after Miss Meldreth left the house, and evidently does not intend to come back again. He has left his portmanteau; but he has emptied it of everything that he could carry away, and left two sovereigns on the table in payment of his rent and other expenses for the week."

"He has gone to his daughter!" cried Flossy, starting up. "Why have you not been to her? I gave you her address."

"No use, ma'am," said the inspector, shaking his head. "We've been round there already, and left Mullins to watch the house. But I expect we are too late. We ought to have known last night. Amateurs in the detective line are sometimes very clever; but they are not always sharp enough for our work. The young woman has also disappeared."

Mrs. Vane's unusual absence from her home had not been without its results. Little Dick held high carnival all by himself in the drawing-room and the conservatory; and Enid, feeling herself equally freed from the restraint usually put upon her, wandered out into the garden, and found a cool and shady spot where she could establish herself at ease in a comfortable basket-chair. She did not feel disposed for exertion; all that she wished to do was to lie still and to keep silence. The old unpleasant feeling of illness had been growing upon her more and more during the last few days. She was seldom free from nausea, and suffered a great deal from faintness and palpitation of the heart. As she lay back in her cushioned chair, her face looked very small and white, the blue-veined eyelids singularly heavy. She was sorry to hear the footsteps of a passer-by resounding on a pathway not far from the spot which she had chosen; but she hoped that the gardener or caller, or whoever it might chance to be, would go by without noticing her white dress between the branches of the tree. But she was doomed to be disappointed. The footsteps slackened, then turned aside. She was conscious that some one's hand parted the branches—that some one's eyes were regarding her; but she was too languid to look up. Let the stranger think that she was asleep; then surely he would go upon his way and leave her in peace.

"Miss Vane," said a deep manly voice that she did not expect to hear, "I beg your pardon—do I disturb you?"

Enid opened her heavy eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Evandale—not at all, thank you!"

"I was afraid that you were asleep," said the Rector, instantly coming to her side; "and in that case I should have taken the still greater liberty of awaking you, for there is a sharp east wind in spite of the hot sunshine, and to sleep in the shade, as I feared that you were doing, would be dangerous."

"Thank you," said Enid gently.

She sat erect for a minute or two, then gradually sank back amongst her cushions, as if not equal to the task of maintaining herself upright. The Rector stood beside her, a look of trouble in his kind frank eyes.

"Shall I give you my arm back to the house?" he said, after a pause.

"Oh, no, thank you—I am not ill, Mr. Evandale!"

"But you are not well—at least, not very strong?"

"Well—no. No—I suppose that I am not very strong."

She turned away her head; but, notwithstanding the movement, he saw that a great tear was gathering underneath the veined eyelid, ready to drop as soon as ever it had a chance.

"Miss Vane," said the rector suddenly, "are you in any trouble? Excuse me for asking; but your face tells its own story. You were happier a year ago than you are now."

"Oh, yes," the girl sighed—"much happier!" and then the great tear fell.

"Can I do nothing to help you? My mission is to those who are in any trouble; and, apart from that, I thought once that you looked upon me as a friend." There was a touch of human emotion in the last words which seemed to bring him closer to Enid than the earlier sentence could have done. "But I know you have no need of me," the Rector added sorrowfully; "you have so many friends."

"I have not a friend in the world!" the girl broke out; and then she half hid her face with her transparently thin fingers, and tried to conceal the fact that she was weeping.

"Not a friend, Miss Vane?" Mr. Evandale's tone betrayed complete bewilderment.

"Whom would you call my friend?" said Enid, almost passionately. "Not a man like my poor uncle, duped, blinded, deceived by any one who chooses to cajole him? Not a woman like his wife, who hates me, and wants me out of the way lest I should claim a share of the estate? Oh, I know what I am saying—I know too well! I can trust neither of them—for he is weak and under her control, and she has never been a friend to me or mine. I do not know what to do or where to go for counsel."

"I heard a rumor that you were engaged to marry Mr. Hubert Lepel," said the Rector gravely. "If that be true, he surely should be counted amongst your friends."

"A man," said Enid, with bitterness of which he would not have thought her capable, "who cares for me less than the last new play or the latest dÉbutante at Her Majesty's! Should I call him a friend?"

"It is not true then that you are engaged to him?"

"I thought that I was," said Enid, still very bitterly. "He asked me to marry him; I thought that he loved me, and I—I consented. But my uncle has now withdrawn the half consent he gave. I am to be asked again, they tell me, when I am twenty. I am their chattel—a piece of goods to be given away and taken back. And then you ask me if I am happy, or if I call the man who treats me so lightly a friend!"

"I see—I see. But matters may yet turn out better than you think. Mr. Lepel is probably only kept back by the General's uncertainty of action. I can quite conceive that it would put a man into a very awkward position."

"I do not think that Hubert cares much," said Enid, with a little sarcasm in her tone.

"He must care!" said Evandale impetuously.

"Why?" the girl asked, suddenly turning her innocent eyes upon him in some surprise. "Why should he care?"

The Rector's face glowed."Because he—he must care." The answer was ridiculously inadequate, he knew, but he had nothing else to say. "How can he help caring when he sees that you care?—unless he has no more feeling than a log or a block of stone." He smote his hand angrily against the trunk of a tree beside him as he spoke.

Still Enid looked at him with the same expression of amazement. But little by little his emotion seemed to affect her too—the blush to pass from his face to her pale cheeks.

"But—but," she stammered, at length, "you are wrong—in that way—in the way you think. I do not care."

"You do not care? For him do you not care?"

"As a cousin," said Enid faintly—"yes."

"Not as a lover?" The Rector spoke so low she could hardly hear a word.

"No."

"Not as a husband?"

"No."

"Then why did you consent to marry him?"

One question had followed another so naturally that the strangeness of each had not been felt. But Enid's cheeks were crimson now.

"Oh, I don't know—don't ask me! I felt miserable, and I thought that he would be a help to me—and he isn't. I can't talk to him—I can't trust him—I can't ask him what to do! And we are both bound, and yet we are not bound; and it is as wretched for him as it is for me—and I don't know what to do."

"Could you trust me better than you have trusted him?" said the Rector hoarsely.

He knew that he was not acting quite in accordance with what men usually termed the laws of honor; but it seemed to him that the time had come for contempt of a merely conventional law. Was Perseus, arriving ere the sacrifice of Andromeda was completed, to hesitate in rescuing her because the sea-monster had prior rights, forsooth? Was he—Maurice Evandale—to stand aside while this gentle delicate creature—the only woman that he had ever loved—was badgered into an early grave by cold-hearted kinsmen who wanted to sacrifice her to some family whim? He would do what he could to save her! There was something imperious in his heart which would not let him hold his tongue."Trust you? Oh, yes—I could trust you with anything!" said Enid, half unconscious of the full meaning of her words.

"Do you understand me?" said Mr. Evandale. He dropped upon one knee beside her chair, so as to bring his face to a level with hers, and gently took both her hands between his own as he spoke. "I want you to trust me with your life—with yourself! Make no mistake this time, Enid. Could you not only trust me, but care for me? For, if you can, I will do my best to make you happy."

"Oh, I don't know!" said Enid. She looked at him as if frightened, then withdrew her hands from his clasp and put them before her face. "It is so sudden—I never thought——"

"You never thought that I loved you? No; I have kept silence because I thought that you loved another. But, if that is not true, and if you are only trying to uphold a family arrangement which is painful perhaps to both of you, why, then, there is nothing to keep me silent! I step in and offer you a way out of the difficulty. If you can love me, I am ready to give you my whole life, Enid. I have never in my life loved a woman as I love you. And I think that you could care for me a little; I seem to read it in your eyes—your poor tired eyes! Rest on me, my darling—trust to me—and we will fight through your difficulties together."

He had drawn her gently towards him as he spoke. She did not resist; her head rested on his shoulder, her slender fingers stole again into his hand; she drew a sigh of perfect well-being and content. This man, at any rate, she could trust with all her heart.

"Do you love me a little, Enid?"

"I think so."

"You are not yet sure?"

"I am not sure of anything; I have been so tossed about—so perplexed—so troubled. I feel as if I could be at rest with you—is that enough?"

"For the present. We will wait; and, if you feel more for me, or if you feel less—whatever happens—you must let me know, and I will be content."

"You are very good! But, oh"—with a sudden shrinking movement—"I—I shall have broken my word!"

"Yes; I am sorry that you have to do it. But better break your word than marry a man you do not love."

"And who does not love me," said Enid, in an exceedingly low tone.

"Are you really sure of that, Enid?"

"Indeed—indeed I think so! He is so cold and indifferent, and we never agree when we talk together—he seems impatient of my ideas. Our tastes are quite different; I am sure that I should not be happy with him, nor he with me."

"You will be brave then, my love, and tell him so?"

"Yes." But again she shrank from him. "Oh, what shall I do if she—if Flossy tells me that I must?"

Mr. Evandale frowned.

"Are you so much afraid of Mrs. Vane?"

"Yes," she said timorously—"I am. She—she frightens me! Oh, don't be angry! I know I am very weak; but indeed I cannot help it!"—and she burst into despairing tears.

"My darling, my poor little Enid, I am not angry at all! We will brave her together, you and I. You shall not be afraid of her any longer; you will know that I am always near you to protect you—to strengthen you. And you will trust to me?"

She tried to answer "Yes;" but her strength suddenly seemed to die away from her. She slipped from his arm and lay back upon the cushions; a bluish tinge overspread her lips; her face turned deathly white; she seemed upon the verge of a swoon.

Evandale, alarmed as he was, did not lose his presence of mind. Fortunately he had in his pocket a flask of brandy which he had been about to carry to a sick parishioner. In a moment he had it uncorked and was compelling her to swallow a mouthful or two; then he fanned her with the great black fan which had lain upon her lap; and finally he remembered that he had seen a great watering-can full of water standing in the garden path not far away, and found that it had not been removed. The cold water with which he moistened her lips and brow brought her to herself; in a few minutes she was able to look up at him and smile, and presently declared herself quite well. But Evandale was very grave.

"Are you often faint, Enid?" he asked."Rather often; but this"—with a little tinge of color in her pale cheeks—"this is just a common kind of faintness—it is not like the other."

"I know; but I do not like you to turn faint in this way. May I ask you a few questions about yourself?"

"Oh, yes—I know that you are quite a doctor!" said Enid, smiling at him with perfect confidence.

So the Rector put his questions—and very strange questions some of them were, thought Enid, though he was wonderfully correct in guessing what she felt. Yes, she was nearly always faint and sick; she had a strange burning sensation sometimes in her chest; she had violent palpitations, and odd feelings of a terrible fright and depression. But the doctor had assured her that she had not the faintest trace of organic disease of the heart; and that these functional disturbances would speedily pass away. Mr. Ingledew had sounded her and told her that she need not be alarmed—and of course he was a very clever man.

"Enid," said the Rector at last, after a long pause, and rather as if he was trying to make a sort of joke which, after all, was not amusing, "I am going to ask you what you will think a very foolish question. Have you an enemy in the house—here, at Beechfield Hall?"

Enid's eyes dilated with a look of terror.

"Why—why do you ask?"

"It is a ridiculous question, is it not? But I thought that perhaps somebody had been playing on your nerves, and wanting to frighten you about yourself. Is there anybody who might possibly do so?"

Her lips parted twice before any articulate word issued from them. At last he caught the answer—

"Only Flossy."

He was silent for a moment.

"Do you take any medicine?" he asked, at length.

"Yes; Mr. Ingledew sent me some."

"What is it like?"

"I don't know; it is not disagreeable. Flossy looked at it, and said that it was a calming mixture."

"I should like to see the prescription; perhaps it does not quite suit you. And who gives it to you?"

"I take it myself; it is kept in my bed-room."

"And what else do you drink and eat?" said the Rector, smiling. "You see, I am quite a learned physician. I want to know all about your habits.""Oh, I eat and drink just what other people do."

"Are you thirsty at night?"

"Yes—very. How did you guess that? I have orange water or lemonade put beside me every night, so that I may drink it if I wake up."

And then Evandale, who was watching her intently, saw that her face changed as if an unpleasant thought had suddenly recurred to her.

"What is it, dear?"

"It was only a dream I have had several times—it troubles me whenever I think of it; but I know that it is only a dream."

"Won't you tell me what it was? I should like to hear! Lay your head back on my shoulder again and tell me about it."

Enid sighed again, but it was with bliss.

"Perhaps I shall not dream it if I tell it all to you," she murmured. "It seems to me sometimes as if—in the middle of the night—I wake up and see some one in the room—a white figure standing by my bed; and she is always pouring something into my glass; or sometimes she offers it to me and makes me drink; and she looks at me as if she hated me; and I—I am afraid."

"But who is it, my darling?"

"I suppose it is nobody, because nobody else sees it but me. I made Parker sleep with me two or three times; but she said that she saw nothing, and that she was certain that nobody had come into the room. I suppose it was a—a ghost!"

"Nonsense, dearest!"

"Then it was an optical illusion, and I am going out of my mind," said Enid despairingly.

"Was the figure like that of anyone you know?"

"Yes—Flossy."

"Mrs. Vane? And you think that she does not like you?"

"I know that she hates me."

"My darling, it is simply a nightmare—nothing more." But he felt her trembling in his arms.

"It is more than a nightmare, I am sure. You know that people used to say that I might go out of my mind if those terrible seizures attacked me? I have not had so many of them lately; but I feel weaker than ever I did—I feel as if I were going to die. Perhaps it would be better if I were to die, and then I should not be a trouble and a care to anybody. And it would be better to die than to go mad, would it not?"

"Enid," said the Rector very gravely, "I believe that your malady is entirely one of the nerves, and that it can be controlled. You must try to believe, my darling, that you could conquer it if you tried. When you feel the approach of one of these seizures, as you call them, resolve that you will not give way. By a determined effort I think that it is possible for you to ward them off. Will you try, for my sake?"

"I will try," said Enid wearily; "but I am afraid that trying will be useless."

"And another thing—I do not believe that Mr. Ingledew is giving you the right kind of medicine. I want you quietly to stop taking it for a week, and to stop drinking lemonade or orange-water at night. In a week's time let us see how you feel. If you are no better, I will talk to Ingledew myself. Will you promise me that? Say, 'Yes, Maurice.'"

"Yes, Maurice—I promise you."

"And one more thing, my own dearest. When that nightmare attacks you again, try to conquer your fear of it. Do not lie still; rise up and see what it really is. You may find that your dreamy state has misled you, and that what you took for a threatening figure is merely that of a servant, who has had orders to come and see whether you were sleeping or not. Nightmares often resolve themselves into very harmless things. And of the supernatural I do not think that you need be alarmed; God is always near you—He will not suffer you to be frightened by phantoms of the night. Remember when you wake that I shall be thinking of you—praying for you. I am often up very late, and I do not sleep heavily. I shall probably be awake thinking of you, or I may be praying for you, darling, in my very dreams. Will you think of that and try to be brave?"

"I feel braver now," said the girl simply. "Yes, Maurice, I will do all you ask. I do not think that I shall feel afraid again."

He left her soon afterwards, and returned on the following morning, to hear, not with surprise, that she had slept better, that she had had no nightmare, and that she suffered less from nausea and faintness than usual. Mrs. Vane was away for a second night, and he had time to see Enid again before her return. She had not touched her medicine-bottles, and there was again a slight but marked improvement in her condition. Mr. Evandale induced her to fetch one of the bottles of Mr. Ingledew's mixture, which he put into his pocket and conveyed it to his own home. Here he smelt, tasted, and to some extent analysed it. The result was such as to plunge him for a short time into deep and troubled thought.

"I expected it," he said at last, with an impatient sigh. "The symptoms were those of digitalis-poisoning. There is not enough in this concoction to do her much harm however. It is given to her in some other form—in that lemonade at night perhaps. Well, I shall soon see whether my suspicions are correct when Mrs. Vane comes home."