atigue seemed things far away to him. Wherever he
looked--out into the grey mists, which came rolling across the moor,
soaking him with moisture, or down into the road, fast becoming a bog,
or up into the dim sky--he seemed to see the pages of Adrea's letter
standing out before him, word for word, phrase for phrase. Every
sentence of it seemed to him as vivid and real as though it had been
spoken in his ears; nay, he could almost fancy that he saw the great
tears welling slowly out of those soft, dark eyes, and could hear the
passionate quiver in her faltering tones. Day by day it had been a
desperate struggle with him to resist the mad desire which prompted
him to order a dogcart, drive to the nearest town, and catch the mail
train to London. Beyond that--how she would receive him, what he would
say to her--everything was chaos; he dared not trust himself to think
about it.

Yet, whenever he suffered his thoughts to dwell upon this matter at
all, the reverse side of it all sooner or later presented itself.
Clear and insistent above the emotion which swayed him came ever that
uncompromising question--where lay his duty in this matter? It was
the true and manly side of his nature, developed by instinct and long
training, and refusing now to be overborne and swept away by this
surging tide of passion. It rang in his ears, and it demanded an
answer. Away in the distance, on the opposite side of the valley,
his vacant eyes rested idly upon the many lights and dim outline of
Westover Castle. What place had Lady May in his heart? Was there room
for her--and Adrea? Could he see Adrea day by day, and never pass the
barrier which he himself had set up between them? What did he wish?
What was right? Just then everything was to him so vague and chaotic.

He had been riding for nearly an hour, with his reins quite loose upon
his horse's neck, and trusting entirely to her to take the homeward
route. Suddenly his mare came to an abrupt halt, and Paul looked
around him in surprise. At first he had not the faintest idea as to
his whereabouts; then a dull roar, coming from across a narrow
strip of moorland on his left, gave him a clue, and he saw what had
happened. Instead of turning inland to Vaux Abbey, his horse had kept
straight on, and had brought him almost to the sea--a good five miles
out of his way.

The situation was not a cheerful one. They were ten miles from home,
and Ironsides, completely done up, was trembling ominousl