"Chasing some poor little fox!" said the girl with light scorn.

"One might be doing something worse!"

"One might!" Her accents were dubious.

"You don't believe in the chase, or the hunt? Allow me to differ; people
always must hunt _something_, don't you know; primeval instinct! Used to
hunt one another," he laughed. "Sometimes do now. Fox is only a
substitute for the joys of the man-hunt; sort of sop to Cerberus, as it
were. Eh, Ronsdale?"

But the nobleman did not answer; his face looked drawn and gray; with
one hand he seemed almost clinging to his saddle. John Steele's back was
turned; he was bending over the girth of his saddle and his features
could not be seen, but the hand, so firm and assured a moment before,
seemed a little uncertain as it made pretext to readjust a fastening or
buckle.

"Why, man, you look ill!" Captain Forsythe, turning to Lord Ronsdale,
exclaimed suddenly.

"It's--nothing--much--" With vacant expression the nobleman regarded the
speaker; then lifted his hand and pressed it an instant to his breast.
"Heart," he murmured mechanically. "Beastly bad heart, you know, and
sometimes a little thing--slight shock--Miss Wray's danger--"

"Take some of this!" The captain, with solicitude, pressed a flask on
him; the nobleman drank deeply. "There; that'll pick you up."