“It isn’t a hind, is it?” inquired Lord Rockminster, doubtfully.

“A hind of ten points!” Lionel said, with a laugh, as he pushed his way through.  “Well, I must see if I can have a hot bath to soften my bones.”

“My good fellow, it’s waiting for you,” his host said.  “I told Jeffreys the moment I saw you coming down the strath.  We’ll put back dinner a bit; but be as quick as you can.”

At the same moment there appeared a white-draped figure on the landing above, leaning over the balustrade.

“What have you done, Mr. Moore?” called down the well-known voice of Honnor Cunyngham.

“I’ve got a stag,” he said, looking up with a good deal of satisfaction—­or gratitude, perhaps?—­in his eyes.

“How many points?”

“Ten.”

“Well done!  Didn’t I tell you you would get a stag?”

“It’s all owing to the lucky sixpence you gave me,” he said; and she laughed, as she turned away to go to her room.

After a welcome bath he dressed as quickly as he could for dinner—­dressed so quickly, indeed, that he thought he was entitled to glance at the outside of the pile of letters awaiting him there on the mantelpiece.  He had a large correspondence, from all kinds of people; and when he was in a hurry this brief scrutiny of the address was all he allowed himself; he usually could tell if there was anything of unusual importance.  On the present occasion the only handwriting that arrested him for a second was Nina’s; and some sort of half-understood compunction made him open her letter.  Well, it was not a letter; it was merely a little printed form, such as is put about the stalls and boxes of a theatre when an announcement has to be made.  This announcement read as follows: 

     “NOTICE:  In consequence of the sudden indisposition of MISS
     BURGOYNE, the part of ‘Grace Mainwaring’ will be sustained this
     evening by MISS ANTONIA ROSS”

—­while above these printed words Nina had written, in a rather trembling hand:  “Ah, Leo, if you were only here to-night!” Apparently she had scribbled this brief message before the performance; perhaps haste or nervousness might account for the uncertain writing.  So Nina was to have her great opportunity after all, he said to himself, as he went joyfully down-stairs to join the brilliant assemblage in the drawing-room.  Poor Nina!—­he had of late almost forgotten her existence.

CHAPTER X.

AIVRON AND GEINIG.

Honnor Cunyngham was quite as proud as Lionel himself that he had killed a stag; for in a measure he was her pupil; at all events it was at her instigation that he was devoting himself to these athletic sports and pastimes, and so far withdrawing himself from the trivialities and affectations of the serious little band of amateurs.  Not that Miss Cunyngham ever exhibited any disdain for those pursuits of her gifted