'Yours?' said the vicar, inquiringly, and again the bushy brows were knitted. 'Poor man! he is sleeping where I know he did not want to lie, in my churchyard; yet he will sleep as soundly there in English earth, let us hope, as if he lay among his ancestors in Ellon Kirk, among mailed knights, mediæval bones, and the Hic jacets of other days,' he added, smiling.
'Where has Miss Cheyne gone to?'
'London,' replied the vicar, curtly.
'Can you give me her address?' asked Goring, eagerly.
'May I ask who inquires?' said the vicar.
'I sent in my card—Captain Goring, of the Rifle Brigade.'
'Just returned from Ashantee?'
'Nay,' replied Bevil, colouring with honest mortification, 'I was detailed for home service.'
'And now stationed at Aldershot?'
'Yes.'