A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

There was a mystery—of that he felt sure; but it was no part of his business to seek to unravel it. The best thing he could do, he felt, was to get up and go. He could scarcely maintain a conversation without asking or implying questions which seemed to painfully embarrass his hostess.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, rising and holding out his hand. "I feel quite a new man! If you don't mind I'd like to leave my mare here until to-morrow. She really isn't fit to travel. My man shall come for her early."

"Pray do!" she answered quickly. "Ah!"

She had started, and clutched at the back of her chair with trembling fingers. Her eyes, wide open and startled, were fixed upon the door.

Paul, too, turned round, and uttered a little cry. His heart beat fast, and the room swam before him. He stood for a moment perfectly still, with his eyes fastened upon the figure in the doorway.

CHAPTER XV

"AND MOST OF ALL WOULD I FLY FROM THE CRUEL MADNESS OF LOVE"

It was Adrea—Adrea herself! She stood there in the shadow of the doorway, with her lips slightly parted, and her great eyes, soft and brilliant, flashing in the ruddy firelight. It was no vision; it was she beyond a doubt!

Even when the first shock had passed away, he found himself without words; the wonder of it had dazed him. He had thought of her so often in that quaint, dainty little chamber in Grey Street that to see her here so unexpectedly, without the least warning or anticipation, was like being suddenly confronted with a picture which had stepped out of its frame. And that she should be here, too, of all places, here in this bleak corner of the kingdom, where blustering winds swept bare the sullen moorland, and the sea was always grey and stormy. What strange fate could have brought her here, away from all the warmth and luxury of London, to this half-deserted old manor house on the verge of the heath? His mind was too confused in those first few moments to follow out any definite train of thought. The most natural conclusion, that she had come to him, did not enter his imagination.