Part 25 (1/2)

”Really, now you come to mention it, I believe I am.”

”More than interested?” the lady pursued, stretching out her hand for the marmalade jar.

”Perhaps. Why?”

”Well, I was wondering whether you knew she was already engaged?”

”Engaged! Lena engaged! Impossible! She has--er--practically engaged herself to me, Mrs. Knox.”

”Precisely. That is the engagement to which I refer! I merely desired to ascertain whether your intentions were entirely honest.”

”I a.s.sure you, Mrs. Knox----”

”Quite so, Mr. Carrington; I understand. I have mentioned the matter to your papa, who leaves it entirely in my hands.”

”Really! But don't you think Miss Scott and I are the first persons to be considered?”

”That, my dear boy, is a matter for you to decide between yourselves.

Lena is in the drawing-room. Perhaps you would like to exchange a few words. I will not intrude just yet. As a matter of fact, I have only just begun my breakfast. I have been ailing lately. My appet.i.te is not what it was, but there are one or two things your dear housekeeper has provided to-day which have tempted me to eat.”

Laurence withdrew, leaving Mrs. Knox to congratulate herself on being an excellent match-maker. He entered the drawing-room, but was disappointed to find the room empty.

He hurried upstairs to the Squire's bedroom, where he was surprised to see Lena, who had been reading to the old gentleman.

”Father,” he cried, ”you are safe! He is drowned in the Wizard's Mars.h.!.+”

The Squire darted up in bed.

”Do you mean it? Is this true? How do you know?” he shrieked, clutching his son's arm, and staring into his face with eyes almost starting from their sockets.

”We traced him there. He was chased by the Marquis's bloodhounds. And this--this was found on the brink of the swamp. In trying to escape the hounds he plunged into the marsh, and, followed by them, has gone down into its unfathomable depths.”

And he produced the dead man's ”noose.”

”Then I am safe!” yelled Squire Carrington.

Laurence had barely time to a.s.sure him that such was the case when the door opened and Kingsford appeared.

”A gentleman to see you,” he informed the Squire mysteriously.

”Show him in; show him in,” replied the old gentleman, to Kingsford's unbounded astonishment. Once he knew that the grim shadow of dread and death no longer enshrouded him, the Squire was something like he had been five-and-twenty years before--the das.h.i.+ng Indian officer, striving his hardest for promotion, so that he might claim for his bride the woman who had now been dead long years.

”Show him in,” he said, almost hysterically, wriggling about in his bed until the pains in his neck compelled him to desist.

Kingsford departed, only to return in a couple of minutes, throw open the door, and announce in strident tones a name that caused the three occupants of the room to stare with unbounded astonishment in the direction of the doorway.

”Sir Bromley Lestrange,” he said.

And, with light tread, there stepped into the room--”Doctor Orlando Meadows,” alias ”Major Jones-Farnell!”