emained with me so vividly
in the morning I would take the bull by the horns and call at the
_Metropole_ to make inquiries.

I returned to my hotel in time for dinner, but still I could not rid
myself of the feeling that some calamity was approaching. Having sent my
meal away almost untouched, I called a hansom and drove to the nearest
theatre, but the picture of Phyllis crying and calling for me in vain
kept me company throughout the performance, and brought me home more
miserable at the end than I had started. All night long I dreamed of it,
seeing the same picture again and again, and hearing the same despairing
cry, "Oh, Dick! Dick! come to me!"

In the morning there was only one thing to be done. Accordingly, after
breakfast I set off to make sure that nothing was the matter. On the way
I tried to reason with myself. I asked how it was that I, Dick Hatteras,
a man who thought he knew the world so well, should have been so
impressed with a bit of wizardry as to be willing to risk making a fool
of myself before the two last people in the world I wanted to think me
one. Once I almost determined to turn back, but while the intention held
me the picture rose again before my mind's eye, and on I went more
resolved to solve the mystery.

Arriving at the hotel, a gorgeously caparisoned porter, who stood on the
steps, said in response to my inquiry:--

_"They've left, sir. Started yesterday afternoon, quite suddenly, for
Paris, on their way back to Australia!"_

CHAPTER III

I VISIT MY RELATIONS

For the moment I could hardly believe my ears. Gone? Why had they gone?
What could have induced them to leave England so suddenly? I questioned
the hall porter on the subject, but he could tell me nothing save that
they had departed for Paris the previous day, intending to proceed
across the Continent in order to catch the first Australian boat at
Naples.

Feeling that I should only look ridiculous if I stayed questioning the
man any longer, I pressed a tip into his hand and went slowly back to my
own hotel to try and think it all out. But though I devoted some hours
to it, I could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. The one vital point
remained and was not to be disputed--they were gone. But the mail that
evening brought me enlightenment in the shape of a letter, written in
London and posted in Dover. It ran as follows:--

"MONDAY AFTERNOON.

"MY OWN DEAREST.--Something terrible has happened to pap