The old man held his head up more and more erect as he went on, and when the butler came from below in answer to the bell, he noted that his lordship was humming in a low voice a snatch of an air that was often played in the square by the organs. He was too chivalrous to believe the message, and in the calmest manner possible he placed his hand upon the door-knob, turned it, entered the softly-lit drawing-room, closed the door in his usual gentle way, and crossed towards Marie's chair, where she would be seated by the steaming urn, with Ruth reading aloud as was her wont. "I have been thinking, my dear--" he said. Then he stopped, perfectly calm, though both chairs were empty, and his lips quivered slightly. "It is a lie--a cruel lie! God bless her! I'll not believe it!" He muttered this as he went on, and was about to ring the bell, when he hesitated. Should he?--should he not? It would be braver and better to do so, he thought, and would show his calm confidence to his servants. But why should he trouble them? Poor sweet! her head had been aching a good deal that day, she said, and she had gone to lie down. Ruth, perhaps, was with her. He would go up and see. He went slowly up to the bedroom--tapped; there was no answer, and he softly entered, to find the lights burning and something white upon the toilet-table--something white that caught his eye on the instant, and involuntarily he said: "A note!" Of course--a note to explain why she was not there. He glanced at himself in the long cheval-glass that had so often reflected the form of his beautiful wife. His face was very pale, but he could see that he looked perfectly cool and collected as he crossed to the toilet-table and took up the note. He raised his glasses, and saw that it was open--a note directed in a feminine hand to Lady Henry Moorpark. The note fell from his fingers and a frown gathered on his brow as, after a few moments' hesitation, he walked rapidly out of the chamber and down into the drawing-room, where he rang the bell, and a footman came to the call. "Has her ladyship gone out, Robert?" "Yes, my lord." "And Miss Allerton?" "Yes, my lord." "Did they have the carriage?" "No, my lord; Miss Allerton went out directly after dinner, and her ladyship soon after." "That will do." The man left the room, and Lord Henry stood for a few minutes gazing straight before him, and with a strangely stern aspect in his face. Love and chivalry were fighting hard with ordinary worldliness, and it was a question which would win. "I ought to go," he said at last--"I will go. Heaven knows that I do not--that I will not doubt her; but she is not here, and it is very strange. I will go."