t outside on the veranda alone. He
was in no mood for bridge and preferred a breath of air outside. As
he let himself out by one of the French windows of the small
drawing-room in the farther wing of the house, a dark figure brushed
past him swiftly, and next second had vaulted over the ironwork of the
veranda and was lost in the dark bushes beyond.

As the stranger had paused to leap from the veranda, a ray of light
from the window had caught his countenance. It was only for one brief
second, yet Charlie had felt convinced that the countenance was that
of a Chinaman. Besides the stealthy cat-like movement of the man was
that of an Oriental. Yet what could a Chinaman be doing about that
house?

He was half inclined to tell his host, yet on reflecting, he thought
the probability was that it was some stranger who, attracted by the
music and laughter within, had been trying to get a glimpse of the gay
party.

That night, as the auction bridge proceeded, Otley withdrew from it
and went to his room, where he sat down and wrote two notes--one to
Peggy and the other to his hostess. In the latter he apologized that
he had been suddenly recalled to London on some very urgent business,
and that he would leave Malton by the first train in the morning.

The note to Peggy he placed in his pocket, and returning to the room
where they were now dancing, found her in a flimsy cream gown,
sleeveless and cut low--a dress that suited her to perfection--dancing
with apparent merriment with young Eastwood, though he knew that her
heart was sad. But her face was flushed by excitement, and she was
entering thoroughly into the country-house gayety. Presently, however,
he was able to slip the note into her hand and whisper a good-by.

"I shall be in London on Tuesday and will call at Bennett Street in
the evening. We will then talk it all over, dear. Don't despair--for
my sake--don't despair!" she said.

And compelled to slip back to the ballroom, she crushed the note into
her corsage.

Early next morning a car took Charlie to the station, and soon after
luncheon he reentered his rooms. The day was Monday, wet and dreary.
All hope had left him, for his defalcations must be discovered and the
directors would, without a doubt, prosecute him. Hence he went about
London interested in nothing and obsessed by the terrible disgrace
which must inevitably befall him.

On the evening of his sudden departure from Hawstead, at about
half-past six