vanished away as a stray street-sweeper might do, or some milliner's
lowest work-woman. But at last there were advertisements in all the
newspapers and placards on all the walls, and Mrs. Mountjoy did
understand that the captain was gone. She could as yet hardly believe
that he was no longer heir to Tretton: and in such short discussions
with Florence as were necessary on the subject she preferred to express
no opinion whatever as to his conduct. But she would by no means give
way when urged to acknowledge that no marriage between Florence and the
captain was any longer to be regarded as possible. While the captain was
away the matter should be left as if in abeyance; but this by no means
suited the young lady's views. Mrs. Mountjoy was not a reticent woman,
and had no doubt been too free in whispering among her friends something
of her daughter's position. This Florence had resented; but it had still
been done, and in Cheltenham generally she was regarded as an engaged
young lady. It had been in vain that she had denied that it was so. Her
mother's word on such a subject was supposed to be more credible that
her own; and now this man with whom she was believed to be so closely
connected had disappeared from the world among the most disreputable
circumstances. But when she explained the difficulty to her mother her
mother bade her hold her tongue for the present, and seemed to hold out
a hope that the captain might at last be restored to his old position.

"Let them restore him ever so much, he would never be anything to me,
mamma." Then Mrs. Mountjoy would only shake her head and purse her lips.

On the evening of the day after the fracas in the street Harry Annesley
went down to Buston, and there remained for the next two or three days,
holding his tongue absolutely as to the adventure of that night. There
was no one at Buston to whom he would probably have made known the
circumstances. But there was clinging to it a certain flavor of
disreputable conduct on his own part which sealed his lips altogether.
The louder and more frequent the tidings which reached his ears as to
the captain's departure, the more strongly did he feel that duty
required him to tell what he knew upon the matter. Many thoughts and
many fears encompassed him. At first was the idea that he had killed the
man by the violence of his blow, or that his death had been caused by
the fall. Then it occurred to him that it was impossible that
Scarboroug