"Is that Miles?" the tall man asked.

The groom knew the voice. Iris was even better acquainted with it. She,
too, recognised Lord Harry.

X

THERE was the Irish lord at the very time when Iris was most patiently
resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband
again--reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their
mutual confession of it! Fear of herself kept her behind the curtain;
while interest in Lord Harry detained her at the window in hiding.

"All well at Rathco?" he asked--mentioning the name of the house in
which Arthur was one of the guests.

"Yes, my lord. Mr. Mountjoy leaves us to-morrow."

"Does he mean to return to the farm?"

"Sorry I am to say it; he does mean that."

"Has he fixed any time, Miles, for starting on his journey?"

Miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an
explanation. Yes, indeed, Master Arthur had fixed a time; he had
written a note to say so to Mistress Lewson, the housekeeper; he had
said, "Drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village." And what
might Miles want at the village, in the dark? Medicine, in a hurry, for
one of his master's horses that was sick and sinking. And, speaking of