“It’s all right, Bulger,” said the voice of Viscount Rivington. “Drive carefully now, so that we do not attract any needless attention. Straight to Sim’s alley, King’s Cross.” CHAPTER XXVIII. MARGARET’S ATONEMENT. Like a man bereft of all reason, Sir Harold Annesley paced his wife’s room, the words of her last letter seeming to eat into his brain like molten fire. “Poor Theresa!” he said, at last. “What must have been your mental sufferings to drive you to this? A life’s devotion can never repay such wonderful love as yours!” He clasped one hand to his burning brow, and looked about him mournfully. The place was fragrant with her sweet presence, like the perfume of a flower that is dead. He stepped to the window, and gazed at the busy crowd below. Then the full force of Theresa’s meaning burst upon him, and he cried aloud in his agony. He reverently placed the letter in his pocketbook, and rang for Stimson. The valet was near at hand, and came quickly into the room. “Lady Annesley has gone away, Stimson,” his master said, brokenly, “has left me with some mistaken notion of giving me my freedom. She heard something last night, when I was angry with that scoundrel, Rivington--something concerning Lady Elaine Seabright, and her heart is broken. Stimson, I must find her if all London has to be searched. Her words may be wild and irresponsible, but my heart reproaches me sorely. Now, try and remember what she said to you last, and how she looked.” The valet could only repeat what he had already stated. “It seems,” Sir Harold said, “that the fates are all against me. I have been detained at every turn against my will.” He sprang up resolutely. “There is nothing that you can do, Stimson, and I am incapable of sustained thought at present. Within an hour, though, the whole machinery of the law shall be put in motion.” He stepped swiftly away without another word, and, jumping into a cab, was driven to Scotland Yard once more. The inspector readily granted him an interview, and listened in amazement to his latest trouble. “Only an hour since I learned from Asbury that the anonymous letter-writer was within reach when wanted, and I concluded that your troubles were nearly at an end, Sir Harold,” he said. “This is merely an outcome of the disgraceful affair,” Annesley replied, savagely clinching his hands. “My poor wife has evidently been driven out of her mind with fear--more upon my account than her own. Now, sir, what can be done?”