rung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, and
rung a second time, a countrified-looking woman emerged from the house,
and came slowly along the wide moss-grown gravel-walk towards him. She
stared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not make
any attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand,
waiting for Gilbert to speak.

"This is Sir David Forster's house, I believe," he said.

"Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn't live here."

"I know that. You have some lodgers here--a lady and gentleman called
Holbrook."

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving at
the truth. He had a conviction that this solitary farm-house was the
place to which his unknown rival had brought Marian.

"Yes, sir," the woman answered, still staring at him in her Blow stupid
way. "Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up in London. Did
you wish to see the lady?"

Gilbert's heart gave a great throb. She was here, close to him! In the
next minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whom
he loved, and must continue to love, until the end of his life.

"Yes," he said eagerly, "I wish to see her. You can take me to her at
once. I am an old friend. There is no occasion to carry in my name."

He had scarcely thought of seeing Marian until this moment. It was her