ions. Zeal's abrupt arrival without servant or luggage, and his
more than usual rudeness, had charged him with vague suspicions as well
as annoyance. When Gwynne, in spite of his self-control, had turned
livid upon hearing that Zeal was in the Abbey, and had risen as if to
fly to his rescue, a dark if undefined foreboding had entered his
grandfather's mind. But Lord Strathland respected the reserve of his
guests, no matter how nearly related, and, dismissing the subject, had
forgotten his apprehension until Gwynne revived it by his untimely
pilgrimage. Then Lord Strathland thought the time had come to hear the
truth.

"Well?" he demanded, sharply. "What is it? What's up? Why doesn't Zeal
open? I saw him in Piccadilly on Saturday and he stared at me as if he
had never seen me before. I thought at the moment it was some of his
damned impertinence, but concluded that he had something on his mind. He
looked more dead than alive."

Gwynne's back was to the light, and he controlled his voice, although
his heart was thumping. "Well, he has been, poor chap--awfully seedy--I
am really worried. He may have anticipated a final hemorrhage, and
crawled home to die." He cherished the hope that Zeal had been at pains
to procure an untraceable drug.

"Ah! Well--I hope that is it if the poor fellow is dead. He looked as if
he had more than ill-health on his mind. I thought he had pulled up, but
no doubt he went to pieces over some wretched woman again. Come, let us
get in. I don't want the servants to know anything of this at present."

They threw themselves against the door. The old gentleman was heavy and
Gwynne sound and wiry in spite of his delicate appearance. The door was
stout but its hinges were old, and after several attempts they drove it
in. Lord Strathland's face was pale and he was panting, but he led the
way rapidly through the sitting-room into the bedroom.

Zeal had undressed, extended himself on the bed, and covered his body
with an eider-down quilt. Lord Strathland jerked it off, and both saw
what they had expected to see, for a faint odor of burnt powder lingered
in the rooms.

Lord Strathland's face was ghastly, almost blue. He had anticipated
death, not with the imagination of the young, but dully, through the
atrophied faculties of his age, and the shock could hardly have been
greater had he found his grandson without warning.

"What does this mean?" he demanded, thickly. "You know and I will know."

Gwynn