as the breakfast-bell echoed through the house christian ran downstairs. he met hilda entering the open door with the letters in her hand.

“down already?” he exclaimed.

“yes,” she replied incautiously, “i wished to get the letters early.”

“and, after all, there is nothing for you?”

“no,” she replied. “no, but—”

she stopped suddenly and handed him two letters, which he took slowly, and apparently forgot to thank her, saying nothing at all. there was a peculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his face, and he studied the envelopes in his hand without reading a word of the address. presently he raised his eyes and glanced at hilda. she was holding a letter daintily between her two forefingers, cornerwise, and with little puffs of her pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently enjoying the infantile amusement immensely.

he dropped his letters into the pocket of his jacket, and stood aside for her to pass into the house; but she, abruptly ceasing her windmill operations, looked at him with raised eyebrows and stood still.

“well?” she said interrogatively.

“what?”

“and mr. trevetz's answer—i suppose it is one of those letters?”

“oh yes!” he replied. “i had forgotten my promise.”

he took the letters from his pocket, and looked at the addresses again.

“one is from trevetz,” he said slowly, “and the other from mrs. strawd.”

“nothing from mr. bodery?” asked she indifferently.

he had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, turning, he held trevetz's letter against the wall while he wrote across it. without ceasing his occupation, and in a casual way, he replied:—

“no, nothing from mr. bodery; so i am free as yet.”

“i am very glad,” she murmured conventionally.

“and i,” he said, turning with a polite smile to hand her the letter.

she took the envelope, and holding it up in both hands examined it critically.

“m-a-x,” she read; “how badly it is written! max—max talma—is that it?”

“yes,” he answered gravely, “that is it.”

with a little laugh and a shrug of her shoulders she proceeded to open the envelope. it contained nothing but the sketch made upon the fly-leaf of a novel. christian was watching her face. she continued to smile as she unfolded the paper. then she suddenly became grave, and handed the open sketch to him. at the foot was written:—

“max talma—look out! avoid him as you would the devil!

“in haste, c.t.”

christian read it, laughed carelessly, and thrust the paper into his pocket. “trevetz writes in a good forcible style,” he said, turning to greet molly, who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. for an instant her merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost anxious look as she caught sight of her sister and christian standing together.

“are you just down?” she asked carelessly.

“yes,” answered christian, still holding her hand.

“i have just come down.”

as usual the day's pleasure was all prearranged. a groom rode to the station at christian's request with a large envelope on which was printed mr. bodery's name and address. this was to be given to the guard, who would in his turn hand it to a special messenger at paddington, and the editor of the beacon would receive it by four o'clock in the afternoon.

the day was fine, with a fresh breeze, and the programme of pleasure was satisfactorily carried out. but with sunset the wind freshened into a brisk gale, and heavy clouds rolled upwards from the western horizon. this was the first suggestion of autumn, the first sigh of dying summer. the lamps were lighted a few minutes earlier that night, and the family assembled in the drawing-room soon after dark, although the windows were left open for those who wished to pass in and out.

mrs. carew's grey head was, as usual, bent over some simple needlework, while molly sat near at hand. according to her wont she also was busy, while around her the work lay strewed in picturesque disorder. sidney was reading in his own room—reading for a vague law examination which always appeared to have been lately postponed till next october.

christian was seated at the piano, playing by snatches and turning over the brown leaves of some very old music, unearthed from a lumber-room by mrs. carew for his benefit. he waited for no thanks or comment; sometimes he read a few bars only, sometimes a page. he appeared to have forgotten that he had an audience. presently he rose, leaving the music in disorder. hilda had been called away some time before by an old village woman requiring medicaments for unheard-of symptoms. christian looked slowly round the room, then raising his hand he dexterously caught a huge moth which had flown past his face.

as he crossed the room towards the open window, with a view of liberating the moth, a low whistle reached his ear. the refrain was that of the familiar “retraite.” hilda had evidently gone out to the moat by another door. bowing his head, he passed between the muslin curtains and disappeared in the darkness. the sound of his footsteps died away almost immediately amidst the rustle of branch and leaf already crisp with approaching change.

it was stanley's bed-time. mechanically, molly kissed her brother, continuing to work thoughtfully.

in a few minutes the door opened and hilda entered the room. she came up to the table, and standing there with her hands resting upon some pieces of molly's work, she gave a graphic description of the old woman's complaints and maladies. she stood quite close to molly, and told her story to mrs. carew merrily, failing to notice that her sister had ceased sewing, and was listening with a surprised look in her eyes. when the symptoms had been detailed and laughed over, hilda turned quietly and passed out into the garden. with fearless familiarity she ran lightly down the narrow pathway towards the moat, but no signal-whistle greeted her. the leaves rustled and whispered overhead; the water lapped and gurgled at her feet, but there was no sign or sound of life.

silent and motionless she stood, a tall fair form clad in white, amidst the universal, darkness. so silent and so still that it might have been the shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning the loss of her true knight, who in all the circumstances of war had crossed that same moat never to return.

presently a sudden feeling of loneliness, a new sense of fear, came over hilda. all around was so forbidding. the water at her feet was so black and mysterious. she gave a soft low whistle identical with that which had called christian out twenty minutes before, but it remained unanswered, and through the rustling leaves she sped towards the house. from the open window a glow of rosy light shone forth upon the flowers, imparting to all alike a pallid pink, and dimly defining the grey tree-trunks across the lawn. as hilda stepped between the curtains, the servants entered the drawing-room in solemn indian file for evening prayers.

mrs. carew looked up from the bible which lay open before her, and said to hilda:—

“where is christian?”

“i don't know, mother; he is not in the garden,” answered the girl, crossing the room to her own particular chair.

sidney rose from his seat, and going to the window, sent his loud clear whistle away into the night. his broad figure remained motionless for some minutes, almost filling up the window; then he silently resumed his seat.

mrs. carew smoothed down the silken book-marker, and began reading in a low voice. it is to be feared that the psalmist's words of joy were not heard with understanding ears that night. a short prayer followed; softly and melodiously mrs. carew asked for blessings upon the bowed heads around her, and the servants left the room.

“have you not seen christian since you went to see mrs. sender, hilda?” asked molly, at once.

“no,” replied hilda, arranging the music into something like order upon the piano.

“he went out about half an hour ago, in answer to your whistle.”

hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the music in order.

“how could i whistle,” she asked gently, “when i was in the kitchen doling out medicated cotton-wool to mrs. sender?”

molly looked puzzled.

“did you whistle, sidney?” she asked.

“i—no; i was half-asleep over a law-book in my own room.”

“i expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time,” suggested mrs. carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again.

“but what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, molly?” asked hilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. she walked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room.

“yes,” answered molly uneasily. “yes—i heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once.”

sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. with a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. he stood for some moments immediately behind hilda without touching her. then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. he was a singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress. fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and hilda there existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy.

in the ordinary way he would have mumbled—

“le'mme out!”

on this occasion he touched her waist gently, and the caress almost startled her. it seemed like a confession that he shared the vague anxiety which she concealed so well.

with the charity of maternal love, which is by no means so blind as is generally supposed, mrs. carew often said of sidney that he invariably rose to the occasion; and mrs. carew's statements were as a rule correct. his slowness was partly assumed; his indifference was a mere habit. the assumption of the former saved him infinite worry and responsibility; the habit of indifference did away with the necessity of coming to a decision upon general questions. this state of mind may, to townsmen, be incomprehensible. certain it is that such as are in that condition are not found among the foremost dwellers in cities. but in the country it is a different matter. such cases are only too common, and (without breath of disparagement) they are usually to be found in households where one man finds himself among several women—be the latter mother and sisters, or wife and sisters-in-law.

the man may be a thorough sportsman, he may be an excellent landlord and a popular squire, but within his own doors he is overwhelmed. chivalry bids him give way to the wishes and desires of some woman or other, and if he be a sportsman he is necessarily chivalrous. when one is tired after a long day in the saddle or with a gun, it is so much easier to acquiesce and philosophically persuade oneself that the matter is not worth airing an adverse opinion over. this is the beginning, and if any beginning can look forward to great endings it is that of a habit.

it would appear that sidney carew's occasion had come at last, for once outside the window he changed to a different being. the lazy slouch vanished from his movements, his eyes lost their droop, and he held his head erect.

he made his way rapidly to the stable, and there, without the knowledge of the grooms, he obtained a large hurricane-lamp, lighted it, and returned towards the house. from the window hilda saw him pass down a little path towards the moat, with the lamp swinging at his side, while the shadows waved backwards and forwards across the lawn.

the mind is a strange storehouse. however long a memory may have been warehoused there, deep down beneath piles of other remembrances and conceits, it is generally to be found at the top when the demand comes, ready for use—for good or evil. a dim recollection was resuscitated in sidney's mind. an unauthenticated nursery tale of a departing guest leaving with a word of joy upon his lips and warm comfort in his heart, turning from the glowing doorway and walking down the little pathway straight into the moat.

christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; he knew every inch of the pathway, every stone round the moat. that he should have been drowned in ten feet of clear water, with an easy landing within ten yards, seemed the wildest impossibility. of course such things have happened, but christian vellacott was essentially wide awake, and unlikely to come to mishap through his own carelessness. of all these things sidney thought as he walked rapidly towards the moat, and in particular he pondered over molly's statement that she had heard hilda whistle. this had met with flat denial from hilda, and sidney, with brotherly candour, could only arrive at the conclusion that molly had been mistaken. he would not give way to the least suggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. after all christian would probably come in with some simple explanation and a laugh for their fears. it often happens thus, as we must all know. the moments so long and dreary for the watcher, whose imagination gains more and more power as the time passes, slip away unheeded by the awaited, who treats the matter with a laugh or, at the most, a few conventional words of sympathy.

sidney stood at the edge of the water and threw the beams of light across the rippling surface. mechanically he followed the ray as it swept from end to end of the moat, and presently, without heeding, he turned his attention to the stones at his feet. a gleam of reflected light caught his passing gaze, and he stooped to examine the cause more closely.

the smooth stonework was wet; in fact the water was standing in little pools upon it. round these there were circles of dampness, showing that evaporation was taking place. the water had not lain there long. a man falling into the moat would have thrown up splashes such as these; in no other way could they be plausibly accounted for. sidney stood erect. again he held the lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to see something. his lips had quite suddenly become dry and parched, and there was an uncomfortable throb in his throat. suddenly he heard a rustle behind him, and before he could draw back hilda was at his side. she slipped her hand through his arm, and by the slightest pressure drew him away from the moat.

“you know—sid—he could swim perfectly,” she said persuasively.

he made no answer, but walked slowly by her side, swinging the lamp backwards and forwards as a schoolboy swings his satchel. thus he gained time to moisten his lips and render speech possible.

together they went round the grounds, but no sign or vestige of christian did they discover. a pang of remorse came to hilda as she touched her brother's strong arm. ever since christian's arrival she remembered that sidney had been somewhat neglected, or only remembered when his services were required. christian had indeed been attentive to him, but hilda felt that their friendship was not what it used to be. the young journalist in his upward progress had left the slow-thinking country squire behind him. all they had in common belonged to the past; and, for christian, the past was of small importance compared to the present. she recollected that during the last fortnight everything had been arranged with a view to giving pleasure to herself, molly, and christian, without heed to sidney's inclinations. by word or sign he had never shown his knowledge of this; he had never implied that his existence or opinion was of any great consequence. she remembered even that such pleasures as christian had shared with sidney—pleasures after his own heart, sailing, shooting, and fishing—had been undertaken at christian's instigation or suggestion, and eagerly welcomed by sidney.

and now, at the first suspicion of trouble, she turned instinctively to her brother for the help and counsel which were so willingly and modestly accorded.

“sidney,” she said, “did he ever speak to you of his work?”

“no,” he replied slowly; “no, i think not.”

“he has been rather worried over those disturbances in paris, i think, and—and—i suppose he has never said anything to you about signor bruno?”

“signor bruno!” said sidney, repeating the name in some surprise. “no, he has never mentioned his name to me.”

“he does not like him——”

“neither do i.”

“but you never told me—sid!”

“no,” he replied simply: “there was nothing to be gained by it!”

this was lamentably true, and hilda felt that it was so, although her brother had no thought of posing as a martyr.

“christian,” she continued softly, “distrusted him for some reason. he knows something of his former life, and told me a short time ago that bruno was not his name at all. this morning christian received a letter from carl trevetz, whom we knew in paris, you will remember, saying that signor bruno's real name was max talma, also warning christian to avoid him.”

“is this all you know?” asked sidney, in a peculiarly quiet tone.

“that is all i know,” she replied. “but it has struck me that—that this may have something to do with signor bruno. i mean—is it not probable that christian may have discovered something which caused him to go away suddenly without letting bruno know of his departure?”

sidney thought of the water at the edge of the moat. the incident might prove easy enough of explanation, but at the moment it was singularly unreconcilable with hilda's comforting explanation. and again, the recollection of the signal-whistle heard by molly was unwelcome.

“yes,” he replied vaguely. “yes, it may.”

he was, by nature and habit, a slow thinker, and hilda was running away from him a little; but he was, perhaps, surer than she.

“i am convinced, sidney,” she continued, “that christian connects signor bruno in some manner with the disturbances in france. it seems very strange that an old man buried alive in a small village should have it in his power to do so much harm.”

“a man's power of doing harm is practically unlimited,” he said slowly, still wishing to gain time.

“yes, but he has always appeared so childlike and innocent.”

“that is exactly what i disliked about him,” said sidney.

“then do you think he has been deliberately deceiving us all along?” she asked.

“not necessarily,” was the tolerant reply. “you must remember that christian is essentially a politician. he does not suspect bruno of anything criminal; his suspicions are merely political; and it may be that bruno's doings, whatever they appear to be now, may in the future be looked upon as the actions of a hero. politics are impersonal, and signor bruno is only known to us socially.”

hilda could not see the matter in this light. no woman could have been expected to do so.

“i suppose,” she said presently, “that signor bruno is a political intriguer.”

“i expect so,” replied her brother.

they were walking slowly up the broad path towards the house, having given up the idea of searching for christian or calling him.

“then,” continued sidney, “you think it is likely that he has gone off to see bruno, or to watch him?”

“i think so.”

“that is the only reasonable explanation i can think of,” he said gravely and doubtfully, for he was still thinking of the moat.

they entered the house, and to mrs. carew and molly their explanation was imparted. it was received somewhat doubtfully, especially by molly. however, the farce had to be kept up—and do we not act in similar comedies every day?