am sorry you should forget what is due to yourself; still more what is due to me-a young girl."

"Those tempting lips of yours, my dear, are calculated to make a man forget everything-except what is due to them," replied Sir Gilbert, still grinning, as he caught her wrists and held them, while he tried to snatch a kiss.

"How dare you? Let go my hands at once," cried Vita, in a louder tone, now considerably alarmed and struggling with the baronet, whose strength was very little greater than her own.

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Tom appeared. The anger in his look was terrible to behold. He took in the circumstances of the case at a glance. In an instant, he recalled the several occasions when he had witnessed the baronet and Sybil in equivocal situations. He associated Sir Gilbert with every unpleasantness that had occurred, and believed him to be the evil spirit of their lives. But all this sank into utter insignificance before the fact that he had insulted Vita.

In two strides Tom was beside him, and as Sir Gilbert turned to confront this new adversary, Tom grasped his arm with a gripe that broke the skin. Then, leaning down, he with the other hand seized his leg, and lifting him at arm's length over his head, held him poised horizontally for a second or two, uncertain what to do with him. Then his eye caught the large, handsomely-framed photograph of Sir Gilbert's own self in the centre of the mantelpiece, and with all his strength he hurled the baronet's body against it, smashing all Lady Sybil's beautiful china and making a pretty general average of all the photographs and ornaments, including the worthy baronet himself; the weight of the latter brought down the mantelboard, and they all tumbled in a shapeless heap on the floor.

Tom put his arm round Vita's waist, and, half carrying her from the room, he deposited her in the

carriage, where Mrs. Forbes was waiting for her, and, shutting the door, told the coachman to drive home at once, he himself setting out on foot.

The sudden noise of the crash at The Beacon brought everybody into Sybil's room, where they discovered the unfortunate baronet, bruised, bleeding, and insensible, on the floor. No one could give any clue to the catastrophe; the servants had been attending in the supper-room and no one had witnessed it.

Some one suggested that he must have been trying to reach down a piece of china. Another that he must have been standing on a chair to admire himself in the glass. While a third fancied there must have been a sudden earthquake, local in its effects. When Sybil heard that Tom and the Marston Towers party had left, she connected her late fiancé with the disaster; perhaps a guilty conscience quickened her perception, but she kept her suspicions to herself. Sir Gilbert Caldecott was carried up and put to bed, and the doctor was sent for to attend him.

The guests felt that it would be unseemly to continue the dancing, and soon all took their departure.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

TOM! DON'T GO

Tom's last ebullition at The Beacon had the effect of considerably calming him. Up to that time, he had looked upon Sir Gilbert Caldecott as a silly, vain old man. He had not liked his manner towards Sybil; but he thought him too contemptible to take serious notice of it. When he saw the old baronet trying to kiss Vita by force, he at once realised his true

character, and felt an indescribable loathing and hatred for him. In an instant a dozen suspicious circumstances associated with Sybil, which he had formerly dismissed as absurd, flashed across his mind, and he felt certain there was some secret understanding between them.

As he walked alone, this winter's night, Tom recalled every incident in the period of his acquaintance with Sybil, and was surprised how much Sir Gilbert was mixed up with them.

Gossip rumoured that the baronet intended marrying the Countess, with whom he was on very intimate terms; and ill-natured people said it was scandalous the way he was perpetually staying at The Beacon; that Lady Raymond should know better; and so forth. This had thrown dust in Tom's eyes; but he felt convinced now that the attraction at The Beacon was the daughter, and not the mother.

He remembered seeing Sir Gilbert drying Sybil's eyes, on the first occasion he had ever seen them together-if he dried the tears, he probably caused them. Then there was the scene at Bamford Abbey, when she had bathed his head; and Tom recollected that Rupert had overheard Sir Gilbert calling Sybil “carissima.” He called to mind how facetious the baronet had been on the night of his engagement to Sybil, calling her his "little chestnut filly," and Tom had wondered then how good-temperedly Sybil had taken his senile drivellings. Tom had no doubt now that he really saw, what he imagined he had, through Sybil's window; and that Sir Gilbert was kissing her within a few hours of her betrothing herself to him; and as Tom recalled this, and the scene in Theresa's Bower the following day, he wondered if Sir Gilbert was dead, and almost felt inclined to go back and make certain he was.

The thought that he had been sharing Sybil's favours with this slimy old reptile, that she had been dividing her caresses between him and Sir Gilbert,

while it incensed him greatly, did more to cure his love for her than could anything.

"Upon my word, she does credit to his tuition. They are nicely matched. May the devil take them both," said Tom as he increased his pace across the fields towards Marston Towers, and dismissed Sir Gilbert Caldecott and Sybil from his thoughts.

He had another and very engrossing subject to occupy his mind. In his pocket he carried his father's letter to Lady Raymond, and he determined he would not close his eyes in slumber that night until his father had explained to him the mysterious allusion to his consanguinity with Sybil.

The path across the fields was much shorter than the high road, and Tom arrived at Marston Towers very shortly after the carriage with Mrs. Forbes and Vita. He had no desire, however, to meet them. They were standing in the morning-room with the door wide open as he came into the hall. Vita was certain Tom saw them; but as he passed on without stopping, she knew that he wished to avoid them.

Vita was feeling overwrought and feverish; her limbs shook and felt so weak that she could scarcely walk; her head ached as if a huge bolt were being driven through it with steadily-recurring blows of a heavy hammer. Altogether, she was very ill. She insisted on remaining up until Tom returned, and then, as he passed her without saying "Good-night," she gave in to Mrs. Forbes' request, and consented to let herself be put to bed.

Tom found his father sitting in his study, writing. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and, by his side, was the seldom-absent glass of grog. He was looking wild and unkempt, and it required no great stretch of the imagination to believe him out of his senses.

"Hulloa! what do you want?" he fiercely asked his son as he entered.

Tom carefully closed the door, and then advanced to the table. There was something so deliberate in

his movements that Mr. Marston, whose nerves were decidedly shaky, grew frightened, and immediately drank off his grog.

"I have just returned from The Beacon, and I have come to ask you what is the meaning of this letter?" said Tom, as he produced Mr. Marston's letter to Lady Raymond.

"The meaning of it is, that, as you refused to give up Lady Sybil Challenger, I have given you up, and henceforth you are a pauper."

"Yes; but you say here that I am related to Lady Sybil."

"So you are. Sybil Challenger is your sister."
"My sister! I do not understand you."

"Yes, Sybil Challenger is your half-sister. You are a natural son of Lord Raymond. Do you understand me now?"

"I am a natural son of Lord Raymond! What the devil are you talking about? Then who is my mother?".

I

"Your mother was Theresa Ratcliff, Lord Raymond's mistress, afterwards Theresa Marston, my wife. was duped into marrying her to conceal her disgrace."

"Good God, this is awful!" exclaimed Tom, turning as pale as ashes. "When did you discover this?"

"I discovered it very shortly after my wife's death, when you were only a few weeks old."

"And do you mean to say that you have lived here for years, and allowed Lord Raymond to be within a mile of you without having your revenge?"

"I had a very complete revenge. Lord Raymond's estates passed into my hands, and he died a brokendown, miserable man, little better off than a beggar."

"So the possession of his estates repaid you for your dishonour. By God, your story is true. You are no parent of mine," and Tom turned from his father as if in disgust.

Strange to say, this, so far from annoying Mr.