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Every evening there was an impromptu concert in the long drawing-room; every evening Lady Eversleigh sang to Victor Carrington's accompaniment. One evening, in the summer dusk, when she had been singing even more superbly than usual, Lydia Graham happened to be seated near Sir Oswald, in one of the broad open windows.

Captain Copplestone gazed at the superscription of the letter with considerable surprise. The handwriting was that of Lady Eversleigh, and the letter was marked Immediate and important. In those days there was no electric telegraph; and a letter conveyed thus had pretty much the same effect upon the captain's mind that a telegram would now-a-days exercise.

"I certainly should have mistaken them for old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italian extraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence of reserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our colder natures." Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliance with the entreaties of the circle about her.

"I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend," he said to Reginald Eversleigh. "There is only one person who will feel your uncle's death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?" "Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout." Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general's decision.

The guests at Hallgrove Rectory this Christmas-time were Douglas Dale, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, a lady and gentleman called Mordaunt, and their two pretty, fair-faced daughters, and two other old friends of the rector's, one of whom is very familiar to us.

What does it all mean? What is the key to this mystery?" Reginald Eversleigh was handsome, accomplished, agreeable irresistible when he chose, many people said; but he was not richly endowed with those intellectual gifts which lift a man to either the good or bad eminence.

The conversation above recorded took place on the day after Mr. Larkspur's interview with Honoria. Three days afterwards, Reginald Eversleigh and his cousin met at the club, for the purpose of going together to inspect the hunters on sale at Mr. Spavin's repository, in the Brompton Road. Dale's mail-phaeton was waiting before the door of the club, and he drove his cousin down to the repository.

"But if I drag yonder fair lady down from her high, estate, you would scarcely care if I were the foul fiend in person," said Carrington, looking at his friend with a sardonic smile. "Oh, I think I know you, Reginald Eversleigh, better than you know me."

Reginald Eversleigh, from first to last you have trifled with me. You are a villain; but you are a hypocrite. You would have the reward of guilt, and yet wear the guise of innocence, even before me; as if it were possible to deceive one who has read you through and through.

If Sir Oswald is still in Arlington Street, I shall make it my business to see Mr. Millard to-morrow." Sir Oswald Eversleigh had not left Arlington Street, and at dusk on the following evening Mr. Carrington presented himself at the door of the baronet's mansion, and asked to see Mr. Millard, the valet.