"Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?" George Vine looked in his brother's eyes once more--the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke's hands.

There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.

"Gone!" he said. "Then she has gone?"

"Yes," said his brother slowly; "she has gone."

"But this man, George--this man, Leslie. Don't stare, man, speak."

"What do you wish me to say, sir?" said Leslie, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Who was he? What was he like?"

"I could not see his face, he kept it averted. I can tell you no more, sir. I tried to force him to stay till Mr Vine's return, as I before told you, and you saw the result."

"A Frenchman?"

"He spoke in French."

"George, had you any suspicion of this?"

"No."

"You never heard a word?"

"I never heard a word."

"But it must have been going on for long enough. And you knew nothing whatever?"

"And I knew nothing whatever," said George Vine, his words coming slowly and in a voice which sounded perfectly calm.

"Then you know from what black cloud this bolt has come?"

"I--I know nothing," said Vine, in the same slow, strange way.

"Then I can tell you," cried Luke, furiously. "If ever man nursed viper at his fireside, you have done this, for it to sting you to the heart.

Hah!" he cried, as the door opened and Aunt Marguerite sailed in, drawing herself up in her most dignified way, as she saw who was present, and then ignoring both strangers, she turned to her brother.

"What is the meaning of these inquiries?" she said sternly. "Where is Louise?"

"Ask your own heart, woman," cried Uncle Luke, furiously. "Gone--gone with some wretched French impostor of your introduction here."

Aunt Marguerite gazed at him angrily.

"I say where is Louise?" she cried excitedly.

"Mr Leslie," said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his sister's shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; "you will forgive a weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?"

"Forgive you, Mr Vine!"

"I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak."

"But Louise?" cried Aunt Marguerite.

"Read her letter. Gone!" cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the note in the old woman's face.

"Gone!" said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face.

"Gone! Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d!"

"George, what are you saying?" cried Uncle Luke excitedly.

"I say thank G.o.d that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow that has fallen upon my home to-night."

Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head, dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan senseless at his brother's feet.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

BROKEN WITH THE FIGHT.

"Better stop where you are, man," said Uncle Luke.

"No," said Leslie, as he stood gazing straight before him, as one who tries to see right on into the future along the vista of one's own life.

"But it is nearly one o'clock. Sit down there and get a nap."

"No. I must go home," said Leslie slowly, and in a measured way, as if he were trying to frame his sentences correctly in carrying on the conversation while thinking of something else.

"Well, you are your own master."

"Yes," said Leslie. "How is he?"

"Calmer now. He was half mad when he came to, and Knatchbull was afraid of brain fever, but he gave him something to quiet the excitement.

Better have given you something too."

"What are you going to do?" said Leslie, turning upon the old man suddenly, and with a wild look in his eyes.

"Do nothing rashly," said Uncle Luke.

"But time is flying, man."

"Yes. Always is," said Uncle Luke, coolly, as he watched his companion with half-closed eyes.

"But--"

"That will do. I cannot discuss the matter to-night, my head's in a whirl. Do nothing rashly is a capital maxim."

"But we are wasting time."