ABOUT the same time that Major Carden was sitting over his breakfast, Sir George Haredale was gloomily contemplating his own. He had read most of his letters, and had impatiently pushed aside the sheaf of bills and applications for money which poured like a flood upon him at every post. Some of them were peremptory and some imploring. But they had been coming in for so long that the master of Haredale Park was more or less hardened to them. But one communication was distinctly out of the common and worried him excessively.

"What the deuce does it mean?" he soliloquized irritably. "And who are these people, Absalom & Co.? I never had any dealings with them. According to their note-paper they call themselves financial agents, but the whole thing looks more like a communication from money-lenders. Yet I don't see how I owe them anything. They write to remind me that in virtue of an assignment made by Mr. Raymond Copley of a certain date I am in their debt to the extent of more than forty thousand pounds. What the dickens is an assignment? And what does Copley mean by doing a thing of this sort without consulting me? These people hope I shall make arrangements to liquidate the debt in the course of the next fourteen days. Why, they might just as well ask me to find as many millions. But I daresay there is nothing really alarming about the thing if I only understood it. I wish I had a head for figures. I wish my father had given me a business training. Still, Copley will put it right. Perhaps he is annoyed at the way that May has been behaving. But I hardly think he will visit her folly upon me. However, I must say the thing is alarming."

Sir George shuffled the letter into his pocket as the door opened and May entered. She was dressed for going out and was buttoning her driving gloves round her wrists. Outside on the gravel stood a smart cob in a Whitechapel cart.

"Where are you going?" Sir George asked.

"To the station to meet Alice Carden. She will be here for lunch."

"I had forgotten her," Sir George murmured. "To tell you the truth, my dear, I am rather sorry you asked her."

"But I was always fond of Alice."

"Yes, of course, why not? The girl is all right. But, between ourselves, Carden is a bit of a bad egg. He comes of an old family, and I recollect when his position was as good as ours. But he muddled his money away. He always affected the society of those sportsmen who are ready to do anybody. He made the mistake of regarding everybody as a fool except himself, and naturally he came to grief. Those fellows always do."

"But he belongs to one or two good clubs," May protested.

"Oh, I know that. He was never actually found out. He was mixed up in one or two very queer transactions, but contrived to keep clear of trouble himself. There are scores of men who meet him on familiar terms, but precious few ask him to their houses. Still, the girl is coming here, and we must make the best of it. But I wouldn't ask her again if I were you. You can easily drop the acquaintance after the next week or so."

May discreetly refrained from discussing the matter further. There was a strong vein of loyalty in her nature. She liked Alice Carden, and was not disposed to visit any of the father's shortcomings on the daughter. She had almost forgotten what Sir George said during her drive to the station. It was a crisp day, and a frosty sun was shining. There was an exhilaration in the air almost like champagne. Before the station was reached May put her troubles behind her, not a very difficult matter for a girl in her twentieth year who boasts of a fine constitution and a perfect flow of animal spirits. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling, as she advanced to meet Alice Carden.

"I thought I would come for you myself," she said. "I brought a cart which I am driving. Now if you will pick out your boxes we'll get a porter to put them in the trap for you."

"My boxes," Alice laughed. "Behold my humble belongings. I have come down here with one dress-basket which contains all the finery I have. I hope you haven't many dinner parties and that kind of thing, for, positively, I have only one evening dress, and I am afraid that that is hopelessly out of date. Still, if you have any special functions, it will be easy to plead a convenient headache."

May laughed as she took up the reins.

"Calm yourself," she said. "I assure you there will be nothing of that sort. We have dropped out of gaieties. For one thing, most of our old friends have left the neighbourhood, and my father doesn't care for new people. We three will probably dine alone every night of your stay, and we can ride and drive, and I can give you a day or two with the hounds if you like."

Alice Carden protested sincerely that she wanted nothing better. It was pleasant to find herself once more driving down the country roads behind a good horse. It was like old times when she came to Haredale Park and surveyed the room which had been appropriated to her use. It was exactly as her father had described. Here was the old oak, the long rambling passages, the china and pictures and ancient furniture, all in the setting where they had been fixed the best part of two centuries ago. Here was the open landscape in front of the mullioned windows. Here were the woods and fields and lawns, and in the distance the stables where Sir George Haredale's stud led its luxurious existence.

It was pleasant to sit in the dining-room before a well-appointed lunch with the fine silver on the table, the vases of flowers, and the beautiful glass. Whatever Sir George's feelings on the subject of his daughter's guest were, there was nothing in his manner to which the girl could take exception. He was natural, courtly and charming, as he always was, and appeared to take the keenest pleasure in Alice Carden's arrival. So far as she could see, there was no sign of trouble, no grim shadow to forecast the ruin hanging over the house. The butler and a footman or two moved about the room. The sunshine poured through the painted windows. Altogether it was a household to be envied. Alice's spirits rose accordingly. She meant thoroughly to enjoy herself, and when lunch was over professed herself willing to fall in with any plan May had to suggest.

"Well, let us have a ride," the latter said. "We will go over the Downs towards the sea and come back by Seton Manor. Now run away and get your habit on. I will have a horse saddled for you which is not too fresh. You used to be a daring rider at one time, but it is as well to begin cautiously. In a day or two you shall have a hunter after your own heart."

They rode out in the keen sunshine and broke across the wide expanse of Downs, and Alice Carden gave herself up to the exquisite enjoyment of the hour. It was good to feel the elastic movement of the cob, to listen to the thud of his hoofs on the turf and catch the breeze streaming in her face. They turned presently as the sun was setting, and jogged more quietly homewards. A little later, as they came to Seton Manor, a string of horses clothed and hooded were turning into the stables. Alice pulled up.

"Who lives there?" she asked.

Some colour crept into May Haredale's cheeks.

"Our neighbour, Mr. Copley," she explained. "He is a newcomer and a great lover of horses; he is very rich, having made a large fortune in South Africa, and I suppose this is one way of getting rid of his income. Like most beginners at the game, he has hardly any good horses, but that is probably because he hasn't time to look after them himself."

"Is he a friend of yours?" Alice asked.

"Oh, well, he comes over to Haredale Park pretty frequently. My father has struck up a sort of intimacy with him. Between ourselves, I detest the man. He goes everywhere in virtue of his money, but he is not a gentleman, as anybody can see. I am going to tell you a secret, Alice, which you must not tell to a soul. Mr. Copley is anxious to marry me. Needless to say, I have given him very little encouragement."

"Of course, you wouldn't," Alice said. "You haven't forgotten what you used to tell me at school. Don't you remember how you confided in me about Harry Fielden, and how you used to read part of his letters? I never knew what became of him."

"No, I never told you. Well, perhaps I will to-night before we go to bed. It was a very unfortunate business altogether. There was nothing wrong about Harry. He was merely very reckless and extravagant, and got rid of his money and went abroad. He hadn't a single penny left, and there was an end of my romance. It sounds very commonplace, but it is just as serious to me as if it were one of those pretty stories we read in books. So now Harry has nothing and I have nothing, and some day or other I shall end, I suppose, in marrying a man for the sake of a home. But you may be certain it won't be Mr. Raymond Copley."

"How very sad!" Alice said sympathetically. "Do you ever see Mr. Fielden?"

"Oh, yes," May laughed unsteadily. "In fact, he is coming towards us now."