ht bitter sorrow on Constance Brandon I do hold you
guilty; of having caused her death, not, and so you will find when you
know all. But her note of two months ago--of course you never saw it?
You must have overlooked it; you are so careless with your papers."

"It never reached me," Livingstone replied. "I have always looked at the
outside of my letters, and I should have known that handwriting among
ten thousand. Some one must have intercepted it. I wish I knew who." He
was recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock, and the old
angry light came back into his eyes.

"I will find out when you are gone," said Mohun. "You have not a moment
to spare. I won't ask you to write; I will join you in England in three
days. Only remember one thing--keep cool. Yes, I know what you mean; but
your patience may be tried more than you have any idea of." He was
thinking of Cyril Brandon.

The hurry of departure prevented any further conversation. At the
station, just before the train started, Ralph said, grasping his
comrade's hand as he spoke, "I did not think you loved her so dearly."

It was very long before he forgot the dreary look which accompanied the
answer, "I did not know it myself till now."

"I must trace the note," the colonel muttered, as he strode away from
the station. "That handsome tiger-cat has laid her claw on it, I am
certain. But she won't confess; red-hot pincers would not drag a secret
from her, if she meant to keep it. I doubt if she will even betray
herself by a blush. Poor Constance! What chance had she against such a
Machiavel in petticoats? I am bad at diplomacy, too. If I only had the
slightest proof, or if she had any weak point--unless she loses her head
when she hears where Guy is gone, I have no chance of finding out much
in that quarter. There's Willis, to be sure--she bribed him, no doubt.
D--n them both!" In this complimentary and charitable mood, he went
straight to Flora Bellasys.

He found her alone. She was sitting in her riding-dress, and the broad
Spanish hat, with its curling plumes, lay close beside her, with the
gauntlets and whip across it.

She did not much like Mohun, for she had an idea that his sarcasms, with
her for their object, had made Guy smile more than once approvingly. She
knew, too, that all her fascinations recoiled harmlessly from that
rugged block of ironstone. Whatever he might have been in early years,
he was harder of heart than stout Sir Artegall no