but, nevertheless, if only in order to show there was no illfeeling, taking the two half-crowns which Frank tendered him.

Who was this man so anxious to ascertain Beatrice's whereabouts? Leaving out of the question his ungentlemanly behaviour to Whittaker, instinct told Carruthers that he was not of the class from which Beatrice drew her friends. Spurious metal; no eighteen carat stamp anywhere, he felt certain. Horace and Herbert would look gentlemen, whether dressed in the pink of fashion or lounging about in ragsnot that they ever did the latter-so, although he was too modest to add his own name, would Frank Carruthers. But this fellow !

Suddenly Carruthers started from his unhappy musings. Why had he let the man go? Why not have forced him to say for what purpose he wanted the address ? He took his hat, and ran quickly down the drive and along the lane in the hope of overtaking the man. He ran right down to the village, but saw nothing of him. Hervey had caught a passing cab, and was now well on his way back to Blacktown, and carrying the pleasant reflection that Beatrice's manner of getting out of her difficulty had put him into a cleft stick. He began to wish he had been contented with money, and foregone revenge. In the nineteenth century an attempt at revenge proves a failure in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.

Although Carruthers did not find the man he wanted he found some one else-Sylvanus Mordle. Sylvanus and his tricycle formed the centre of a sympathetic group of villagers. Something had gone wrong with the metal steed, and the curate, smiling as if a foundered tricycle was one of the greatest unexpected blessings that can visit a clergyman, was examining wheels, spokes, cranks, and chains. Various suggestions, some prompted by rustic wit, were hazarded by lookers-on. "Got the staggers;" "Want's a feed, poor thing;""Light a fire under him, sir," etc. etc. Sylvanus took the jokes of his flock in good part, but, presently looking up, saw Carruthers among the spectators. He left his helpless machine, and the two friends shook hands warmly.

"Here," said Mordle, turning to his flock, "bring that affair to my house, some of you. Now, old fellow," to Frank, come and have a chat. Heard you were to be down this week. Come to my lodgings." He took Frank's arm and swept him away.

"Can't give you more than a cup of tea," he continued, "tobacco and tea-that's the worst of being in the Church. Can't dare to offer a friend whisky until after ten o'clock at night. An enemy might go by unawares."

He rattled on merrily, and appeared to be in the highest spirits. This, of course, was because he felt certain that Frank's second visit to Oakbury would not have been paid had Beatrice remained an unattainable prize. Frank only came again, because he felt sure that a second attempt would mean success.

"Lots to say to you-lots," jerked out Sylvanus, as they entered his rooms. "Fanshawe writes me that you are going to give up coaching. Want to hear all about it; but wait till the tea's made. Ever see me make tea?" "Wonderful thing tea is," he continued. "Cheap tea helps Christianity tremendously. Great blessing." He put the already steaming kettle fully on the fire, and opened a canister. "I-I, Sylvanus Mordle, found out the error of modern tea-making. People make it as they made it twenty years ago, when it cost seven-and-six a poundspoonful each head, and one for the pot. I go on a sliding scale, according to price." He absolutely shovelled in the tea, and dashed the boiling water on it. "Now two minutes, and then pour. The aroma, the soul of the tea, is caught. Taste!"

Frank thought that even an aroma must be cunning and subtle if it managed to escape this bustling, energetic parson. The tea was certainly good.

"Now," said Mordle, stretching out his long legs, "tell me the news."

During the process of tea-making Frank had been reflecting. He saw that he wanted aid-more aid than Horace and Herbert, whose one idea was to conceal Beatrice's flight from the neighbouring gossips, could give him.

He

knew that Sylvanus was true as steel, and would keep the secret. He hoped to gather from him some useful particulars as to Beatrice's everyday life during the last few months. So he told Sylvanus the news-the whole news.

And having told it, Frank Carruthers saw what few, very few in this world have ever seen-that was the Rev. Sylvanus Mordle looking the picture of utter misery and self-reproach. The change in the man positively startled Carruthers.

"It's been on my mind ever since," said Mordle dejectedly.

"What's been on your mind? For mercy's sake speak out if you have any clue to give."

"I have been very wrong. I ought never to have yielded. But I did. I couldn't refuse."

"Did what? Pull yourself together, and tell me what you mean."

Mordle did so, and gave Frank the whole history of the expedition to Blacktown. Frank, who a few hours before had heard all about the Rawlings's claim, tried to relieve Mordle's mind, and to a certain extent succeeded. However, the curate still retained the impression that the visit to the "Cat and Compasses" was in some way responsible for the girl's flight. Frank had some trouble to get him to promise to withhold his confession from the Talberts.

He resolved to find this woman whom Beatrice had visited, and to learn what occurred at the interview. He felt half inclined to veer round to Horace's original theory, that Beatrice had fled to insure her pet's safety. Perhaps the man with whom Whittaker had struggled was a lawyer's emissary. Beatrice might have paid her mysterious visit in order to delay proceedings. If so, her strange act was but an act of folly, and all would come right in the end.

He tried very hard to take this view of the case, but he could not. No, there was more, much more, in the background, and he felt that the man he had seen held the key of the puzzle. He cursed his own unreadiness of resource in having let him go so easily.

Q

CHAPTER XXV.

ANOTHER PAINFUL TASK.

THE dinner that night at Hazlewood House was a dreary affair. Frank did not see his hosts until the gong sounded. Their calls had kept them so long that they were obliged to dress in undue haste to avoid unpunctuality in their own persons, a thing which would have amounted to a kind of moral suicide. The conversation whilst Whittaker was in the room was naturally forced. Frank could indeed tell them of the contemplated change in his life, but as all the while he was thinking how Beatrice would have received the news, his communication was made with none of his usual vivacity. Horace and Herbert were mildly astonished. They trusted-in that way which implies doubt that it would be for the best. To give up a certainty for an uncertainty seemed a pity; but of course Frank knew his own business best. A remark with which Mr. Carruthers mentally agreed.

It seemed quite in order with the misfortunes of the house that the bottle of 1858 should have been shaken in some way and appeared cloudy, not to say thick. It might have been as thick as pea-soup for all Frank cared.

Nothing, or next to nothing, was said during dessert about the recent painful event. Frank sat moody and silent. He was working out problems; connecting Beatrice's flight with the man of the afternoon and the visit to the inn. For Beatrice's sake he was now fighting for his own hand. Horace and Herbert he eliminated from the inquiry.

His moodiness affected his hosts, and upon his refusal to take more wine they suggested an adjournment to the

drawing-room.

Frank agreed readily. At any rate he

could sit there and gaze at Beatrice's portrait.

"Do you mean to take any further steps ?" he asked. "I think not," said Horace. "Herbert and I have talked the matter over and feel there is no more to be done. We saw a great many people this afternoon, and I am sure have left a general impression that Beatrice has gone to visit friends.'

"It was a most painful duty," said Herbert, "but one we felt must be performed. In fact, it was due to ourselves to forestall gossip."

"I am sure Frank quite understands the situation," said Horace.

A satirical smile curled round Frank's lips. "It must have been most painful," he said; "you must have felt like two Spartan boys with a joint fox under their clothes." "Yes," said Herbert simply, "we did."

"I have often heard the simile used," said Horace, "but its great strength never struck me until now."

Carruthers gave a short quick laugh; he could not help it. The brothers looked surprised. They could see no reason for any approach to merriment. A biting sarcasm

came to the young man's lips, but he restrained it, and in a moment was glad he had done so. It would have wounded these two kind, mild-looking men, who, no doubt, were as unable to realise the anxiety raised in his breast by Beatrice's flight, as he was unable to comprehend the importance of the consequences which they were making such sacrifices to avert. Seeing things in the same light is a matter of constitution, education, and training.

Just then Whittaker brought in tea, and whilst he handed it round, Frank had leisure to rejoice, insomuch as he had kept his tongue in command. But misfortune

Frank, in mov

had not yet done with Hazlewood House. ing his arm, knocked down a cup, and sent its scalding contents over one of the several delicious little Chippendale tables, the pride of the Talberts' hearts and the envy of their lady friends.

The simile of the Spartan boy and the fox must have