et-book--thrust it
again into his coat. Never once did the thought cross Eugenie's mind
that he had probably worn it there, through these last days, while
their relation had grown so intimate, so dear. All recollection of
herself had left her. She was possessed with Phoebe. Nothing else
found entrance.

At last, after much more questioning--much more difficult or impetuous
examination--she rose feebly.

'I think I understand. Now--we have to find her!'

She stood, her hands loosely clasped, her eyes gazing into the sunny
vacancy of sky, above the rock.

Fenwick advanced a step. He felt that he must speak, must grovel to
her--repeat some of the things he had said in his letter. But here,
in her presence, all words seemed too crude, too monstrous. His voice
died away.

So there was no repetition of the excuses, the cry for pardon he had
spent the night on; and she made no reference to them.

They walked back to the hotel, talking coldly, precisely, almost as
strangers, of what should be done. Fenwick--whose work indeed was
finished--would return to England that night. After his departure,
Madame de Pastourelles would inform her father of what had happened;
a famous solicitor, Lord Findon's old friend, was to be consulted; all
possible measures were to be taken once more for Phoebe's discovery.

At the door of the hotel, Fenwick raised his hat. Eugenie did not
offer her hand; but her sweet face suddenly trembled afresh--before
her will could master it. To hide it, she turned abruptly away; and
the door closed upon her.

CHAPTER XI

After a moderately bright morning, that after-breakfast fog which we
owe to the British kitchen and the domestic hearth was descending on
the Strand. The stream of traffic, on the roadway and the pavements,
was passing to and fro under a yellow darkness; the shop-lights
were beginning to flash out here and there, but without any of their
evening cheerfulness; and on the passing faces one saw written the
inconvenience and annoyance of the fog--the fear, too, lest it should
become worse and impenetrable.

Fenwick was groping his way along, eastward; one moment feeling and
hating the depression of the February day, of the grimy, overcrowded
street; the next, responsive to some dimly beautiful effect of colour
or line--some quiver of light--some grouping of phantom forms in the
gloom. Halfway towards the Law-Courts he was hailed and overtaken by a
tall, fair-haired man.

'Hal