drive about town. Dale came in
the evening and observed the house as he strolled along the main
thoroughfare of Grosvenor Place. There were lights in several rooms,
and the window of the porch showed that the hail was lighted up. Mr.
Barradine had said that he hoped to be able to get home to-day, but
evidently his journey had been postponed until to-morrow. He had said
he would go on Friday at the latest.

He did not, however, go on Friday. Dale kept the house under
observation off and on all day, and again in the evening. Mr.
Barradine went out driving twice; but the carriage brought him back
each time. How many more postponements? Would he go to-morrow? Yes, he
would go to-morrow; but this involved more delay. It would be useless
to follow him to-morrow, because he would never pass through the wood
on Sunday. No, he would spend Sunday inside his park-rails, going to
the Abbey church, walking about the garden, looking at the stables and
the dairy. Moreover, Sunday would be the one dangerous day in the
woods--nobody at work, everybody free to wander; young men with their
sweethearts coming off the rides for privacy; cottagers with squoils
hunting the squirrels all through church time perhaps. Dale ground his
teeth, shook his fist at the lighted windows, and thought. "If he does
not go to-morrow--I can't wait. My self-control will be exhausted, and
I shall certainly do something fullish."

But Mr. Barradine went home that Saturday. Between ten and eleven in
the morning the brougham stood at the door, a four-wheeled cab was
fetched and loaded with luggage, and the two vehicles drove off round
the corner southward on their way to Waterloo. And Dale felt his
spirits lightening and a fierce gaiety filling his breast. The time
of inaction was nearly over; this hateful sitting down under one's
wrongs would not last long now; soon he would be doing something. He
took quite a pleasant walk through Chelsea, and over the river to
Lambeth, where, after a snack of lunch, he read the newspapers in a
Public Library. The Library was a quiet, convenient resort; and
yesterday he had written a letter there, to Mr. Ridgett at Rodchurch
Post Office--not because he really had anything to communicate, but
because it seemed necessary, or at least wise, to send off a letter
from London.

He enjoyed a good night's rest, and lay in bed till late on Sunday
afternoon. He intended to travel by the mail train--the train that
left Waterloo at ten-