been out nor under the tree. That one—it happened to be Mr. Gordon, of whom casual mention has been made—confessed to having been on the lawn, so far as crossing it went; but he did not go near the tree.
“I went out with my cigar,” he observed, “and had strolled some distance from the house when the storm came on. I stood in the middle of a field and watched it. It was grandly beautiful.”
“I wonder you were not brought home dead!” ejaculated Sibylla.
Mr. Gordon laughed.
“If you once witnessed the thunder-storms that we get in the tropics, Mrs. Verner, you would not associate these with danger.”
“I have seen dreadful thunder-storms, apart from what we get here, as well as you, Mr. Gordon,” returned Sibylla. “Perhaps you will deny that anybody’s ever killed by them in this country. But why did you halt underneath the yew-tree?”
“I did not,” he repeated. “I crossed the lawn, straight on to the upper end of the terrace. I did not go near the tree.”
“Some one did, if you did not. They were staring right up at my dressing-room window. I was standing at it with Mr. Verner.”
Mr. Gordon shook his head.
“Not guilty, so far as I am concerned, Mrs. Verner. I met some man, when I was coming home, plunging into the thicket of trees as I emerged from them. It was he, possibly.”
“What man?” questioned Sibylla.
“I did not know him. He was a stranger. A tall, dark man with stooping shoulders, and something black upon his cheek.”
“Something black upon his cheek!” repeated Sibylla, thinking the words bore an odd sound.
“A large black mark it looked like. His cheek was white—sallow would be the better term—and he wore no whiskers, so it was a conspicuous looking brand. In the moment he passed me, the lightning rendered the atmosphere as light as—”
“Sibylla!” almost shouted Lionel, “we are waiting for more tea in this quarter. Never mind Gordon.”
They looked at him with surprise. He was leaning towards his wife; his face crimson, his tones agitated. Sibylla stared at him, and said, if he called out like that, she would not get up another morning. Lionel replied, talking fast; and just then the letters were brought in. Altogether, the subject of the man with the mark upon his cheek dropped out of the discussion.
Breakfast over, Lionel put his arm within Mr. Gordon’s and drew him outside upon the terrace. Not to question him upon the man he had seen: Lionel would have been glad that that encounter should pass out of Mr. Gordon’s remembrance, as affording less chance of Sibylla’s hearing of it again; but to get information on another topic. He had been rapidly making up his mind during the latter half of breakfast, and had come to a decision.
“Gordon, can you inform me where Captain Cannonby is to be found?”
“Can you inform me where the comet that visited us last year may be met with this?” returned Mr. Gordon. “I’d nearly as soon undertake to find out the locality of the one as of the other. Cannonby did go to Paris; but where he may be now, is quite another affair.”
“Was he going there for any length of stay?”
“I fancy not. Most likely he is back in London by this time. Had he told me he was coming back, I should have paid no attention to it. He never knows his own mind two hours together.”
“I particularly wish to see him,” observed Lionel. “Can you give me any address where he may be found in London?—if he has returned?”
“Yes. His brother’s in Westminster. I can give you the exact number and address by referring to my note-book. When Cannonby’s in London, he makes it his head-quarters. If he is away, his brother may know where he is.”
“His brother may be out of town also. Few men are in it at this season.”
“If they can get out. But Dr. Cannonby can’t. He is a physician, and must stop at his post, season or no season.”
“I am going up to town to-day,” remarked Lionel, “and—”
“You are! For long?”
“Back to-morrow, I hope: perhaps to-night. If you will give me the address, I’ll copy it down.”
Lionel wrote it down: but Mr. Gordon told him there was no necessity: any little ragged boy in the street could direct him to Dr. Cannonby’s. Then he went to make his proposed journey known to Sibylla. She was standing near one of the terrace pillars, looking up at the sky, her eyes shaded with her hand. Lionel drew her inside an unoccupied room.
“Sibylla, a little matter of business is calling me to London,” he said. “If I can catch the half-past ten train, I may be home again to-night, late.”
“How sudden!” cried Sibylla. “Why didn’t you tell me? What weather shall we have to-day, do you think?”
“Fine. But it is of little consequence to me whether it be fine or wet.”
“Oh! I was not thinking of you,” was the careless reply. “I want it to be fine for our archery.”
“Good-bye,” he said, stooping to kiss her. “Take care of yourself.”
“Lionel, mind, I shall have the ponies,” was her answer, given in a pouting, pretty, affected manner.
Lionel smiled, shook his head, took another kiss, and left her. Oh, if he could but shield her from the tribulation that too surely seemed to be ominously looming!
The lightest and fleetest carriage he possessed, had been made ready, and was waiting for him at the stables. He got in there, and drove off with his groom, saying farewell to none, and taking nothing with him but an overcoat. As he drove past Mrs. Duff’s shop, the remembrance of the