He went back home at last, but he made no attempt to see sister or aunt, his anger for the time being was too hot against them, and he was in no disposition to make any excuse. His next step was, he felt, to set Marion's mind at rest regarding the police, and he was about to start for Isabel's temporary London home, when he hesitated, shrinking from meeting her again. He felt that his position was despicable, and now the danger was past he mentally writhed at the obligation which he had so eagerly embraced. "What a poor, pitiful, contemptible object I must seem in her eyes," he muttered as he paced the room. But he grew cooler after a time. Marion's happiness must stand first. She was prostrate with horror and despair, and at any cost he felt that he must preserve her from danger, and set her mind at rest. "But I cannot go," he muttered--"I cannot face her again." Then, half mad with himself for his miserable cowardice, he cast aside the pen with which he was about to write, and determined to go. "She will forgive me," he said; and he hurried into the hall, took up his hat, and then stopped short, aghast at his helplessness. Where was he going? He had not the most remote idea as to where Isabel was staying, and maddened by his position, he forced himself to go up to the drawing-room and ask his sister for the address. "I must be half mad," he muttered. He threw open the drawing-room door and, strode in, determined to insist upon the address being given him if Laura should refuse. But the room was empty, and, staggered by this fresh surprise and with ominous thoughts beginning to arise, he went out on to the landing to call his sister by name. Then he called aloud to his aunt, with the result that an answer to his shouts came from below in the servant's voice-- "Beg pardon, sir; Miss Laura and Mrs Crane went out more than an hour ago." "What! Where did they go?" "I don't know, sir. I had to whistle for a cab, and they each took a travelling bag." Chester went down to his consulting-room, checkmated, and feeling completely stunned at his position. What was he to do? He might set a detective to try and find the cabman who took them away, but it would be days before he could have the man traced. Then came a bright idea. The hotel where Isabel had been staying--the manager there would know where she and her father and mother went on leaving. He took a cab there, but the manager did not know. He thought the old people went abroad, and the young lady went into private apartments. "But their letters--where were their letters to be addressed?" "To their country house, sir." Chester hurried away again. Perhaps something might be made of that, and he went to the first post-office and telegraphed down to the person in charge of the house, paying for a reply to be sent to Raybeck Square, to which place he returned, and paced his room for two hours before he obtained the brief reply:--