And then she walked with a firm, resolute step and head erect, towards the house. Percival did not attempt to follow her. He watched her until she was out of sight, then he re-seated himself, and sank into deep meditation. It was night before he roused himself, and struck a blow with his hand upon the arm of the seat, which sent the rotten woodwork flying, as he gave utterance to his conclusion.
"I was right after all. My father will live to own it some day. He has made a devil of a mistake."
Then he rose and took the path to the house. Before he entered it, however, he looked vengefully in the direction in which the twinkling lights of the little village inn could be seen.
"If you have a secret," he said, slowly and resolutely, from between his clenched teeth, "I'll find it out. If you have a disgraceful story in your life, I'll unmask it. If you have another name you want to hide, I'll publish it to the world. So help me, God! Because you have come, or you are coming, between me and the woman that I love. And if I ever get a chance to do you a bad turn, Mr. John Stretton, I'll do it."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.
"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.
He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length of time in London. He had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette—he very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes—but he held it absently between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read a letter which his servant had just brought to him.
Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful, almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.