noted in his pocket-book; for he had promised to
write to the boy.

He sought the nearest post-office, and dispatched a telegram to
Leonard; "Please let me know immediately your mother's present
address." The reply was to be sent to his rooms in Devonshire Street,
and thither he straightway betook himself, hoping that in an hour or so
he would have news. An extempore lunch was put before him; never had he
satisfied his hunger with less gusto. Time went on; the afternoon
brought him no telegram. At seven o'clock he lay on his sofa, exhausted
by nervous strain, anticipating a hideous night. Again his thoughts had
turned to suicide. It would be easier to obtain poison here than at
Hollingford. Laudanum? Death under laudanum must be very easy, mere
falling asleep in a sort of intoxication. But he must leave behind him
something in writing, something which would excite attention when it
appeared in all the newspapers. Addressed to the coroner? No; to his
committee. He would hint to them of a tragic story, of noble powers and
ambitions frustrated by the sordid difficulties of life. The very
truth, let malice say what it would. At his age, with his brain and
heart, to perish thus for want of a little money! As he dwelt on the
infinite pathos of the thing, tears welled to his eyes, trickled over
his cheek--

Of a sudden, he started up, and shouted "Come in!" Yes, it was a
telegram; he took it from the servant's hand with an exclamation of
joy. Leonard informed him that Mrs. Woolstan was staying at Gorleston,
near Yarmouth, her address "Sunrise Terrace." He clutched at a railway
guide. Too late to get to Yarmouth to-night, but that did not matter.
"Sunrise Terrace!" In his sorry state of mind, a name of such good omen
brought him infinite comfort. He rushed out of the house, and walked at
a great rate, impelled by the joy of feeling himself alive once more.
Sunrise! Iris Woolstan would save him. Already he warmed with gratitude
to her: he thought of her with a tender kindness. She might be richer
than he supposed; at all events, she was in circumstances which would
allow him to live independently. And was she not just the kind of woman
Constance Bride had advised him to marry? Advice given in scorn, but,
his conscience told him, thoroughly sound. A nice, gentle, sufficiently
intelligent little woman. Pity that there was the boy; but he would
always be at school. Suppose she had only four or five hundred a year?
Oh, probably mo