t my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to the
performance.

At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush in
the vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go in
search of our carriage.

I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return I
could not find her.

She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her
up.

I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to the
attendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popular
manager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.

I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. How
madly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer was
useless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the brougham
and drove with all haste to Wilton Street.

"No, Mr. Owen," replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, "madam has
not yet returned."

I brushed past him and entered the study.

Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingers
tore open the envelope.

What I read there staggered me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IN FULL CRY

The amazing letter which I held in my nerveless fingers had been
hurriedly scribbled on a piece of my wife's own notepaper, and read--

"DEAR OWEN--I feel that our marriage was an entire mistake.
I have grossly deceived you, and I dare not hope ever for
your forgiveness, nor dare I face you to answer your
questions. I know that you love me dearly, as I, too, have
loved you; yet, for your own sake--and perhaps for mine
also--it is far best that we should keep apart.

"I deeply regret that I have been the means of bringing
misfortune and unhappiness and sorrow upon you, but I have
been the tool of another. In shame and deepest humiliation I
leave you, and if you will grant one favour to an unhappy
and penitent woman, you will never seek to discover my
whereabouts. It would be quite useless. To-night I leave you
in secret, never to meet you again. Accept my deepest
regret, and do not let my action trouble you. I am not
worthy of your love. Good-bye. Your unhappy--SYLVIA."

I stood staring at the uneven scribbled lines, blurred as they were by
the tears of the writer.

What had happened? Why had she so purposely left me? Why had she made