rineweald.

The sudden return of Denis to help to find the bangle had been the
opportunity. Unfortunately, Lord Henry felt that he had not reckoned
sufficiently with two possibilities, each of which, in itself, was
serious enough: on the one hand, Denis's return to Brineweald long
before himself, and on the other, the confirmation that Vanessa and
Tribe might offer to Denis's report, if Denis chose to tell. First of
all, in the few seconds he had had to consider the matter, it had struck
him as extremely improbable that Denis would either have the time or the
inclination to tell Cleopatra direct, before he himself had had a chance
of speaking to her; and, secondly, he had doubted whether Vanessa and
Tribe could actually have seen him embracing Leonetta.

In these circumstances he had taken the risk which he felt he was
entitled to take in war; but apparently,--at least so he feared,--he had
miscalculated. He had failed to take into account Denis's mad fury, and
the extremes to which this might possibly drive him.

He had not once been mistaken in his estimate of the kind of human life
with which he was experimenting; for he had correctly anticipated the
probable effects that the knowledge of his action would have upon
Cleopatra. He had, however, certainly staked upon luck, and, this time,
it appeared to have turned against him.

Thus he was tormented by the gravest qualms as he made his way to "The
Fastness," and when Wilmott informed him that Miss Cleopatra had not
been seen since she had gone with the rest of Mrs. Delarayne's party in
Sir Joseph's car, early that morning, his worst fears were confirmed.

"Would you mind looking all over the house?" he said. "It is just
possible she may have come in without your noticing."

The girl obeyed and even invited him to join in the search. Their
efforts, however, revealed no trace of Cleopatra.

Lord Henry was at his wits' end. He began to be filled by a secret
feeling of guilt, a feeling that he had gone too far. He had been
foolhardy; he had exceeded his duty. Nothing remained to fortify him, in
his present tragic dilemma, but the conviction that he had acted all
along as if the affair, far from being a matter simply for Cleopatra's
family, had been his personal business, his intimate concern.

He thought of the beach. It did not strike him as probable that the girl
would have gone thither in her solitary despair. However, he wished to
allow for every possible chanc