ose at his heels.

"I wish I could ride to Brighton," said Leicester presently. "This helps
me to keep the devil down."

"Why not?" said Winfield.

"I must get back now," he replied. "There will be an answer to my
letter. It may be--you see--she is very just."

"What does a man want of women while he has a good horse under him, the
open sky above him, and the country all around him?" asked Winfield,
with a laugh.

"What does a man want with heaven when he's been living in hell?" asked
Leicester.

"As you will, Leicester," said his companion; "but take my advice. Don't
expect--too much, and make up your mind to have a good time, whatever
may happen."

Leicester laughed, and it was the laugh of a madman.

"Do you believe in the devil, Winfield?" he said.

"I don't see that the devil has anything to do with it," replied the
other. "We are young, we have life before us, and----"

But Leicester did not listen to him further. He struck his spurs into
his horse's sides, and the animal tore off at a mad gallop. Winfield's
horse started to follow, but the young man held him back. "Let him go,"
he said to himself, "he's better without me. I've made a mistake
evidently, and, great heavens! I don't like to think of what will
happen."

Winfield watched the other, who galloped wildly across the broad open
space, and then waited while he rode the mad passion out of himself.

When Leicester returned, half an hour later, there was a quieter look in
his eyes, his face looked more natural.

"I thought you'd gone, Winfield," he said; "let's get back to town. What
a wedding-day I'm having, eh?"

Both their horses were black with sweat when they returned them to the
job-master from whom they had borrowed them, but Leicester did not wait
to listen to the man's remarks. He hurried back to the club, and went
straight to the office.

"Any letters for me?" he asked.

A number were handed to him which had come through the post.

"Not these," he said impatiently. "Has one come by private messenger?"

"Oh yes, I had forgotten. Here it is, sir."

He took the letter. Yes, it was addressed in Olive Castlemaine's
hand-writing, and without a word he rushed straight to his bedroom. He
wanted to be alone. Feverishly he turned on the electric light, and then
broke the seal. The envelope contained nothing but his own unopened
letter.

For some time he stood still. No sound, no movement did he make. He felt
now that the last thread