That afternoon confinement in the house became so irksome to Grantley Mellen that he could support it no longer, so he put on his hat and hurried out into the grounds.

Upon one point his mind was fully made up. The clue to the mystery appeared to be in his hands; he would follow it out to the end now—he would know the worst. If this woman had wronged him he resolved to sweep her out of his life, even as he had done that false one in years gone by.

That thought drove him nearly mad, it recalled that writing. Should it prove the same! If this man had a second time thrust himself into his life to blacken it with his treachery and hate! Terrible words died, half uttered, on Mellen's lips, his face was fairly livid with passion, a loathing and a hatred which only blood could wipe out.

Below the house the lawn and gardens led away into a grove, and towards its gloom Mellen mechanically directed his steps under the cold, gray sky. A chill wind was blowing up from the water, but he did not observe it; in the fever which consumed him the air seemed absolutely stifling, and he hurried on, increasing its excess by rapid movements.

He was in the grove, walking up and down, with no settled purpose, striving only to escape those maddening thoughts which still clung to him.

The wind was shaking the few remaining leaves from the trees and blowing them about in rustling dreariness, the frosts had already touched the grass and ferns, and though the place on a bright day would still have been lovely, it looked bare and melancholy enough under that frowning sky.

"It is like my life," muttered Mellen; "like my life, with an added blackness coming up beyond."

Then his mood changed; again that fierce passion swept over his face, leaving it dangerous and terrible.

"If that woman has deceived me," he cried aloud, "this time I will have no mercy! She shall taste her degradation to the very dregs; there is no depth of shame through which I will not drag her, though I ruin my own soul in doing it! But it can't be! it can't be! It were death to believe it! Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"

Every tender feeling of his nature went out in that last agonizing cry. For the first time he realised all that this woman had been to him, how completely she had woven herself with his life, and what a terrible blank it would become if he were forced to tear her from it.

He made an effort to check those black thoughts, to invent excuses; he was almost inclined to rush into the house, beg for the truth and promise pardon in advance. Then he called himself a weak fool for the idea that any excuse was possible.

"I will wait—I have the clue—it will all be made clear soon. I will wait."

He clenched his hands with a groan that was half anguish, half rage, and hurried more swiftly into the depths of the woods.

He came out upon a little eminence, from whence he could look down on the paths and avenues leading towards the house, though the dwelling itself was hidden by the thick growth of trees.

Along the high road he saw his wife riding at full speed toward the woods, through which she passed with weary slowness, walking her horse homeward, and looking anxiously down upon his reeking sides, and smoothing his neck with her hand, as if troubled by those signs of hard riding.

Where had the woman been? What deception was she practising now?

Mellen could see his wife's face plainly—for she passed near him quite unconsciously. It was pale and wild with the fear of a hunted animal.

"Traitoress!" he muttered between his teeth, "she thinks to evade me."

He watched the slow progress of Gipsy as she walked toward the house, taking the lawn, evidently because her rider feared to give warning of her expedition by the sound of hoofs on the beaten track. He saw Elizabeth dismount unaided, and go wearily into the house.

Where had she been?

Over and over Mellen asked himself this question, as he sat minute after minute, pondering over the most bitter thoughts that ever haunted a man's brain.

It might have been an hour after, when he saw a man coming up from the direction of the village, walking forward with great rapid strides. Instantly his suspicions fell upon this new object. He was always keen-sighted enough, but just then the thought in his mind made his vision still quicker and more clear.

Without pausing for an instant's reflection he darted down the hill—as he approached the figure it disappeared. On into the woods Mellen followed the intruder, and before he could look around grasped his arm with a clutch so firm that there was no shaking it off.

"Rascal!" he cried, "what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll shake you to pieces!"

The man struggled violently, but Mellen was like a giant in his passion, and swung him to and fro as if he had been a child.

"Let me alone!" cried the man. "I ain't a doing no harm!"

"What are you prowling about my house for, then? Do you know that I am master here? I shall take you indoors, and keep you till I can send for a constable. Take care, no resistance; what is your business here?"

"I wasn't prowling round," pleaded the man, gasping for breath in Mellen's hard grasp; "I thought these woods was public property."

"Then you shall be taught. You had some errand here—speak out, or by the Lord I'll kill you!"

"Don't—don't! You're choking me!" groaned the wretch.

"Then speak! What are you doing here—whom do you want to see?"

"Just let me go and I'll tell you," pleaded his prisoner. "I can't speak while you're throttling me."

Mellen loosened his grasp on the man's throat, but still held him fast. His hold had been a fearful one—the man was actually breathless.

"Will you speak now?" he demanded, with terrible menace in his voice.

The man began to breathe more freely; but, though shaking with fear, he answered sullenly:

"I hain't got nothin' to tell; I was going to the house yonder, and took a short cut through here."

"What business have you at the house? Tell me the truth, for I will know."

The man could both see and feel that he was in horrible earnest; he might easily have supposed himself in the power of an insane man—and for the moment Mellen was little better.

"How do I know that you have a right to ask?" questioned the man.

"I am the master of that house. Now will you speak?"

"Yes," faltered the man, "I'll tell you. It's a telegram that I was carrying to the lady; nothing wrong in that I hope."

"No harm, certainly; give the telegram to me. I will deliver it."

The man gave up the telegram. The envelope which contained it was sealed, but Mellen tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as he unfolded the paper, his hand faltered—in the very height of his rage he could not think of the woe its contents might bring, without a sharp pang.

He read it slowly, standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take in the full extent of his crushing anguish. "Have no fear. I will be at the old spot, prompt to help you. All shall be prepared."

This was the telegram. There was no signature—it needed none. Mellen knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did the woman for whom it was intended.

For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman. The fever and the insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the cold sky, the telegram still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been suffering in a fearful dream—he glanced down at the paper—that brought conviction back.

He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and deciding upon the course he would pursue.

"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "their own evil weapons."

He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the house.

"Not a sign, not a word which can betray," he said aloud. "I will meet her with a duplicity equal to her own,—wait—a little longer—only a little longer."

He walked towards the house, and again Victoria called out to her companions:

"Here comes marster as fast as fast can be."

But Clorinda's thoughts were now centred upon her dinner, and she had no time even for gossip.

"Get away from dat window and go 'bout your work," cried the dark spinster, austerely; "what hev yer got to do wid de marster's outgoin's or incomin's? Beat dese eggs into a foam rite off, for I'se in a hurry. Mr. Dolf puts one back so."

Victoria cast one more glance through the window, for the wild agony on her master's face rather alarmed her. But Clorinda called out in a voice so shrill that it was not to be disregarded, and she was constrained to undertake the task assigned her without more delay.