“Oh, it’s all right, sir,” said she.  “My Sam won’t give it to the wrong person, you may be sure.”

“How do I know that?” said Walter; “and, pray, who did you tell him to give it to?”

“Why, to the lady as was here with you.”

“And how the deuce is he to find her?  He does not know her name.  It’s a great pity you could not keep it till I came.”

“Well, sir, you was so long a-coming.”

“That’s true,” said Walter; “let us make the best of it.  I shall feed my horse, and get home as quickly as I can.”

However, he knew he would be late, and thought he had better go straight home.  He sent a telegram to Mary Bartley:  “Landlord gone to you with bracelet;” and this he signed with the name of the landlady, but no address.  He was afraid to say more, though he would have liked to put his wife upon her guard; but he trusted to her natural shrewdness.  He mounted his horse and went straight home, but he was late for dinner, and that vexed him a little, for it was a matter Colonel Clifford was particular about.  He dashed up to his bedroom and began to dress all in a hurry.

John Baker came to him wearing a very extraordinary look, and after some hesitation said, “I would not change my clothes if I were you, Mr. Walter.”

“Oh,” said Walter, “I am too late, you know; in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“But, sir,” said old John, “the Colonel wants to speak to you in the drawing-room.”

Now Walter was excited with the events of the day, irritated by the affront his father had put upon him and Mary, strung up by hard riding, etc.  He burst out, “Well, I shall not go to him; I have had enough of this—­badgered and bullied, and my sweetheart affronted—­and now I suppose I am to be lectured again; you say I am not well, and bring my dinner up here.”

“No, Mr. Walter,” said the old man, gravely, “I must not do that.  Sir, don’t you think as you are to be scolded, or the angel you love affronted; all that is over forever.  There has been many a strange thing happened since you rode out of our stable last, but I wish you would go to the Colonel and let him tell you all; however, I suppose I may tell you so much as this, that your sweetheart is not Mary Bartley at all; she is Mr. Hope’s daughter.”

“What!” cried Walter, in utter amazement.

“There is no doubt about it, sir,” said the old man, “and I believe it is all out about you and her, but that would not matter, for the Colonel he takes it quite different from what you might think.  He swears by her now.  I don’t know really how that came about, sir, for I was not there, but when I was dressing the Colonel he said to me, ’John, she’s the grandest girl in England, and an honor to her sex, and there is not a drop of Bartley’s blood in her.’”

“Oh, he has found that out,” said Walter.  “Then I’ll go to him like a bird, dear old fellow.  So that is what he wanted to tell me.”