e created for
himself a reputation; and that reputation is worth something, if only as
a means of making money.

This conviction once arrived at, he had worked hard at a book which he
thought must needs make some impression upon the world whenever he could
afford time to complete it. In the meanwhile his current work occupied so
much of his life, that he was fain to lay the _magnum opus_ aside every
now and then, and it still needed a month or two of quiet labour.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT FAULT.

Gilbert Fenton took up his abode at the dilapidated old inn at Crosber,
thinking that he might be freer there than at the Grange; a dismal place
of sojourn under the brightest circumstances, but unspeakably dreary for
him who had only the saddest thoughts for his companions. He wanted to be
on the spot, to be close at hand to hear tidings of the missing girl, and
he wanted also to be here in the event of John Holbrook's return--to come
face to face with this man, if possible, and to solve that question which
had sorely perplexed him of late--the mystery that hung about the man who
had wronged him.

He consulted Ellen Carley as to the probability of Mr. Holbrook's return.
The girl seemed to think it very unlikely that Marian's husband would
ever again appear at the Grange. His last departure had appeared like a
final one. He had paid every sixpence he owed in the neighbourhood, and
had been liberal in his donations to the servants and hangers-on of the
place. Marian's belongings he had left to Ellen Carley's care, telling
her to pack them, and keep them in readiness for being forwarded to any
address he might send. But his own books and papers he had carefully
removed.

"Had he many books here?" Gilbert asked.

"Not many," the girl answered; "but he was a very studious gentleman. He
spent almost all his time shut up in his own room reading and writing."

"Indeed!"

In this respect the habits of the unknown corresponded exactly with those
of John Saltram. Gilbert Fenton's heart beat a little quicker at the
thought that he was coming nearer by a step to the solution of that
question which was always uppermost in his mind now.

"Do you know if he wrote books--if he was what is called a literary
man--living by his pen?" he asked presently.

"I don't know; I never heard his wife say so. But Mrs. Holbrook was
always reserved about him and his history. I think he had forbidden her
to talk about his affairs. I know I u