d not you?"

"I did," acquiesced Mr. Carr. "I certainly assumed it as a fact, until
this letter came to-day. Gordon was the name, I think?"

"George Gordon."

"Since reading the letter I have been endeavouring to recollect exactly
what he did say; and the impression on my mind is, that he spoke of
Gordon as being _probably_ dead; not that he knew it for a certainty.
How I could overlook the point so as not to have inquired into it more
fully, I cannot imagine. But, you see, we were not discussing details
that night, or questioning facts: we were trying to disarm him--get him
not to proceed against you; and for myself, I confess I was so utterly
stunned that half my wits had left me."

"What is to be done?"

"We must endeavour to ascertain where Gordon is," replied Mr. Carr, as
he re-enclosed the letter in his pocket-book. "I'll write and inquire
what _his_ grounds are for thinking he is in England; and then trace him
out--if he is to be traced. You give me carte-blanche to act?"

"You know I do, Carr."

"All right."

"And when you have traced him--what then?"

"That's an after-question, and I must be guided by circumstances. And now
I'll wish you good-night," continued the barrister, rising. "It's a shame
to have kept you up; but the letter contains some consolation, and I knew
I could not bring it you to-morrow."

The drawing-room was lighted when Lord Hartledon went upstairs; and his
wife sat there with a book, as if she meant to remain up all night. She
put it down as he entered.

"Are you here still, Maude! I thought you were tired when you came home."

"I felt tired because I met no one I cared for," she answered, in rather
fractious tones. "Every one we know is leaving town, or has left."

"Yes, that's true."

"I shall leave too. I don't mind if we go to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he echoed. "Why, we have the house for three weeks longer."

"And if we have? We are not obliged to remain in it."

Lord Hartledon put back the curtain, and stood leaning out at the open
window, seeking a breath of air that hot summer's night, though indeed
there was none to be found; and if there had been, it could not have
cooled the brow's inward fever. The Park lay before him, dark and misty;
the lights of the few vehicles passing gleamed now and again; the hum of
life was dying out in the streets, men's free steps, careless voices. He
looked down, and wondered whether any one of those men knew what care
meant as _he