"My God!" he said under his breath, and again, still lower--"_My God_! Of
course. I knew it!"

He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face in
his hands.

Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas and
conjectures rushing through his brain.

Another knock at the door. Buntingford rose automatically, went to the
door, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note in
his hand, which he took to the window to read. Then with steps which
seemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to his
writing-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who was
waiting in the passage. He stood a moment thinking, his hand over his
eyes, before he approached his nephew.

"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night? I am going
out. Make any excuse you like." He moved away--but turned back again,
speaking with much difficulty--"The woman you saw--is at the Rectory.
Alcott took her in last night. He writes to me. I am going there."




CHAPTER XI


Buntingford walked rapidly across the park, astonishing the old
lodge-keeper who happened to see him pass through, and knew that his