got up and looked. Rounding the corner of a long plantation,
about half a mile away, were several men in broken line, with their guns
under their arms; and a little way behind came three keepers, carrying
bags.

Rachel Kynaston looked at them fixedly.

"One, two, three, four, five," she counted. "One short. I don't see
Geoffrey."

Helen moved to her side, and shaded her eyes with her hand. On the
fourth finger a half hoop of diamonds, which had not been there three
months ago, was flashing in the sunlight.

"Neither do I," she said. "I wonder where he is."

Her tone was a little indifferent, considering that it was her _fiance_
who was missing. But no one ever looked for much display of feeling from
Helen Thurwell, not even the man who called himself her lover. Indeed,
her unresponsiveness to his advances--a sort of delicate composure which
he was powerless in any way to break through--had been her strongest
attraction to Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, who was quite unused to anything of
the sort.

The men quickened their pace, and emptying their guns into the air, soon
came within hailing distance. On that particular day of the year there
was only one possible greeting, and Helen and her companion contented
themselves with a monosyllable.

"Well?"

Mr. Thurwell was in the front rank, and evidently in the best of
spirits. It was he who answered them.

"Capital sport!" he declared heartily. "Birds a little wild, but strong,
and plenty of them. We've made a big bag for only three guns. Sir
Geoffrey was in capital form. Groves, open a bottle of Heidseck."

"Where is Geoffrey?" asked Rachel--his sister.

Mr. Thurwell looked round and discovered his absence for the first time.

"I really don't know," he answered, a little bewildered; "He was with us
a few minutes ago. What's become of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, Heggs?" he
asked, turning round to one of the gamekeepers.

"He left us at the top of the Black Copse, sir," the man answered. "He
was coming round by the other side--shot a woodcock there once, sir," he
said.

They glanced across the moor toward Falcon's Nest. There was no one in
sight.

"He's had plenty of time to get round," remarked Lord Lathon, throwing
down his gun. "Perhaps he's resting."

Mr. Thurwell shook his head.

"No; he wouldn't do that," he said. "He was as keen about getting here
as any of us. Hark! what was that?"

A faint sound was borne across the moor on the lazily stirring breeze.
Hel