, darling."

Mark bent and kissed Beatrice's hand tenderly, and made his way down the
stairs. There was nothing now to stay for; Beatrice would go to her
friends, and the strange ending of the Richford-Darryll marriage would
be food for the scandal-mongers for many a day to come. All these
thoughts crowded into Mark's mind as he made his way down into the big
dining-room for luncheon. He was sad and sick at heart, but man must
eat, all the same. He did not look as if he could eat here at present,
for every table was filled. The last seat had fallen to Richford, who
found himself seated opposite to Colonel Berrington. Richford would far
rather have been anywhere else, but there was no help for it.

The Colonel bowed coldly to the other's surly nod. Richford belonged to
a class that the gallant soldier frankly detested. He expressed no
surprise at seeing Richford here; it was natural under the circumstances
that Beatrice should keep to her own room. And Berrington had heard
nothing of the matter of the telegram.

"Oh, never mind all that rubbish," Richford said testily, as the waiter
passed the elaborate _menu_ with its imposing array of dishes. "What's
the good of all that foreign cat's meat to an honest Englishman? Give me
a steak and plain potatoes and a decanter of brandy."

The brandy came before the steak, and Richford helped himself liberally
to the liquid. Berrington was a little astonished. He had more than once
heard Richford boast that he was positively a teetotaller. He usually
held in contempt those who called themselves merely moderate drinkers.

"What a time they keep you here," Richford growled. "If I'd gone to one
of those City places I should have got my steak in half the time. Oh,
here the fellow comes. Now, then, I----"

Richford paused in his growling, and contemplated the red hot plate on
which the steak was displayed with a queer gleam in his eyes and a
clicking of the corners of his mouth. Just for the moment it seemed to
Berrington as if his _vis a vis_ was going to have a fit of some kind.

"There is salt in the plate," Richford gasped. "Who has taken the
liberty of putting----"

He said no more; he seemed to be incapable of further speech. The waiter
looked sympathetic; it was no fault of his. And the salt was there,
sure enough.

"It certainly is salt," the waiter said. "I did not notice it before.
It's a lot of salt, _and it is exactly in the shape of a rifle bullet_;
it's----When I