It appears that Miss Hood's father has--don't let it be a shock to
you--has just died, and died, in fact, by his own hands.'

'Has killed himself?' Wilfrid exclaimed, turning pale.

'Yes, I am sorry to say that is the report. Miss Hood is naturally
suffering from--from the shocking occurrence.'

'She is ill?' Wilfrid asked, when he had examined his father's face for
a moment.

'Yes, I am afraid she is. Beatrice gives no details.'

'You are not keeping anything from me?'

'Indeed, nothing. The words are that she is ill, and, it is feared,
seriously.'

'I must go at once.'

It was said with quiet decision. Wilfrid consulted his watch, and walked
rapidly to the hotel. He had to wait a couple of hours, however, before
he could start on his journey, and he spent the time by himself. His
father felt he could be of no use, and Mrs. Rossall found a difficulty
in approaching her nephew under such circumstances.

'You will telegraph?' Mr. Athel said, at the station, by way of
expressing himself sympathetically.

The train moved away; and the long, miserable hours of travelling had to
be lived through. Wilfrid's thoughts were all the more anxious from his
ignorance of the dead man's position and history. Even yet Emily had
said very little of her parents in writing to him; he imagined all
manner of wretched things to connect her silence with this catastrophe.
His fears on her own account were not excessive; the state of vigorous
health into which he had grown during late weeks perhaps helped him to
avoid thoughts of a desperate kind. It was bad enough that she lay ill,
and from such a cause; he feared nothing worse than illness. But his
uneasiness increased as time went on; the travelling seemed intolerably
tardy. He had to decide what his course would be on reaching Dunfield,
and decision was not easy. To go straight to the house might result in
painful embarrassments; it would at all events be better first to make
inquiries elsewhere. Could he have recourse to Beatrice? At first the
suggestion did not recommend itself, but nothing better came into his
mind, and, as his impatience grew, the obstacles seemed so trifling that
he overlooked them. He remembered that the address of the Baxendales was
unknown to him; but it could easily be discovered. Yes, he would go
straight to Beatrice.

Reaching London at ten o'clock in the morning, he drove directly to
King's Cross, and pursued his journey northwards. Though worn with