The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in the heaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds. That cold light shone on the white range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow.

On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressed Lionel Dale--

"There will be no hunting while this weather lasts."

"None."

"Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?"

"Yes, unless the weather changes in the night."

"Once more, good night, Mr. Dale."

"Good night."

The rector stood at the door, watching the gipsy woman as she walked along the snow-laden pathway. The dark figure moving slowly and silently across the broad white expanse of hidden lawn and flower-beds looked almost ghost-like to the eyes of the watcher.

"What does it all mean?" he asked himself, as he watched that receding figure. "Is this woman a common impostor, who hopes to enrich herself, or her tribe, by playing upon my fears? She asked nothing of me to-night; and yet that may be but a trick of her trade, and she may intend to extort all the more from me in the future. What should she be but a cheat and a trickster, like the rest of her race?"

The question was not easy to settle.

He returned to the drawing-room. His mind had been much disturbed by this extraordinary interview, and he was in no humour for empty small-talk; nor was he disposed to meet Reginald Eversleigh, against whom he had received so singular, so apparently groundless, a warning.

He tried to shake off the feeling which he was ashamed to acknowledge to himself.

He re-entered the drawing-room, and he saw Miss Graham's face light up with sudden animation as she saw him. He was not skilled in the knowledge of a woman's heart, and he was flattered by that bright look of welcome. He was already half-enmeshed in the web which she had spread for him, and that welcoming smile did much towards his complete subjugation.

He went to a seat near the fascinating Lydia. Between them there was a chess-table. Lydia laid her jewelled hand lightly on one of the pieces.

"Would you think it very wicked to play a game of chess on a Christmas evening, Mr. Dale?" she asked.

"Indeed, no, Miss Graham. I am one of those who can see no sinfulness in any innocent enjoyment."

"Shall we play, then?" asked Lydia, arranging the pieces.

"If you please."

They were both good players, and the game lasted long. But ever and anon, while waiting for Lydia to move, Lionel glanced towards the spot where Sir Reginald Eversleigh stood, engaged in conversation with Gordon Graham and Douglas Dale.

If the rector himself had known no blot on the character of Reginald Eversleigh, the gipsy's words would not have had a feather's weight with him; but Lionel did know that his cousin's youth had been wild and extravagant, and that he, the beloved, adopted son, the long-acknowledged heir of Raynham, had been disinherited by Sir Oswald--one of the best and most high-principled of men.

Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degree influenced by the gipsy's warning. He scanned the face of his cousin with a searching gaze.

It was a handsome face--almost a perfect face; but was it the face of a man who might be trusted by his fellow-men?

A careworn face--handsome though it was. There was a nervous restlessness about the thin lips, a feverish light in the dark blue eyes.

More than once during the prolonged encounter at chess, Reginald Eversleigh had drawn aside one of the window-curtains, to look out upon the night.

Mr. Mordaunt, a devoted lover of all field-sports, was also restless and uneasy about the weather, peeping out every now and then, and announcing, in a tone of disappointment, the continuance of the frost.

In Mr. Mordaunt this was perfectly natural; but Lionel Dale knew that his cousin was not a man who cared for hunting. Why, then, was he so anxious about the meet which was to have taken place to-morrow?

His anxiety evidently was about the meet; for after looking out of the window for the third time, he exclaimed, with an accent of triumph--

"I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow. It no longer freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling."

Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about five minutes with a radiant face.

"I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard," he said; "Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right. The wind has shifted to the sou'-west; it is raining fast, and we may have our sport to-morrow."

Lionel Dale's eyes were fixed on the face of his cousin as the country squire made this announcement. To his surprise, he saw that face blanch to a death-like whiteness.

"To-morrow!" murmured Sir Reginald, with a sigh.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"

All through the night the drizzling rain fell fast, and on the morning of the 26th, when the gentlemen at the manor-house rectory went to their windows to look out upon the weather, they were gratified by finding that southerly wind and cloudy sky so dear to the heart of a huntsman.

At half-past eight o'clock the whole party assembled in the dining-room, where breakfast was prepared.

Many gentlemen living in the neighbourhood had been invited to breakfast at the rectory; and the great quadrangle of the stables was crowded by grooms and horses, gigs and phaetons, while the clamour of many voices rang out upon the still air.

Every one seemed to be thoroughly happy--except Reginald Eversleigh. He was amongst the noisiest of the talkers, the loudest of the laughers; but the rector, who watched him closely, perceived that his face was pale, his eyes heavy as the eyes of one who had passed a sleepless night, and that his laughter was loud without mirth, his talk boisterous, without real cheerfulness of spirit.

"There is mischief of some kind in that man's heart," Lionel said to himself. "Can there be any truth in the gipsy's warning after all?"

But in the next moment he was ready to fancy himself the weak dupe of his own imagination.

"I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is," he thought; "the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed all the brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour of pleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strives in vain to shake off."

The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one.

Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she look more attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark blue cloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made her appearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat and dainty whip in her hand.

Her cheeks were flushed with a rich bloom--the warm flush of excitement and the consciousness of success. Lionel's attention on the previous evening had seemed to her unmistakeable; and again this morning she saw admiration, if not a warmer feeling, in his gaze.

"And so you really mean to follow the hounds, Miss Graham?" said Mrs.

Mordaunt, with something like a shudder.