lanations. He simply bore on in the line
he had marked out. He rose from the table and never looked back. His
attitude seemed to say, "I am going to Africa; kindly get out of my
way."

At three minutes to nine--that is to say, in one hour and a half--Guy
Oscard took his seat in the Plymouth express. He had ascertained that
a Madeira boat was timed to sail from Dartmouth at eight o'clock that
evening. He was preceded by a telegram to Lloyd's agent at Plymouth:

"Have fastest craft available, steam up ready to put to sea to catch the
Banyan African steamer four o'clock to-morrow morning. Expense not to be
considered."

As the train crept out into the night, the butler of the gloomy house
in Russell Square, who had finished the port, and was beginning to feel
resigned, received a second shock. This came in the form of a carriage
and pair, followed by a ring at the bell.

The man opened the door, and his fellow servitor of an eccentric class
and generation stepped back on the door-step to let a young lady pass
into the hall.

"Mr. Oscard?" she said curtly.

"Left 'ome, miss," replied the butler, stiffly conscious of walnut-peel
on his waistcoat.

"How long ago?"

"A matter of half an hour, miss."

Millicent Chyne, whose face was drawn and white, moved farther into the
hall. Seeing the dining-room door ajar, she passed into that stately
apartment, followed by the butler.

"Mr. Oscard sent me this note," she said, showing a crumpled
paper, "saying that he was leaving for Africa to-night. He gives no
explanation. Why has he gone to Africa?"

"He received a telegram while he was at dinner, miss," replied the
butler, whose knowledge of the world indicated the approach of at least
a sovereign. "He rose and threw down his napkin, miss. 'I'm goin' to
Africa,' he says. 'Come and help me pack.'"

"Did you see the telegram--by any chance?" asked Miss Chyne.

"Well, miss, I didn't rightly read it."

Millicent had given way to a sudden panic on the receipt of Guy's note.
A telegram calling him to Africa--calling with a voice which he obeyed
with such alacrity that he had not paused to finish his dinner--could
only mean that some disaster had happened--some disaster to Jack
Meredith. And quite suddenly Millicent Chyne's world was emptied of all
else but Jack Meredith. For a moment she forgot herself. She ran to the
room where Lady Cantourne was affixing the family jewelry on her dress,
and, showing the letter, said bre