They tried all the different doors leading from their own rooms into the corridors, but all were locked, excepting the one by which the servant who had brought the breakfast had entered, and Mrs. Coolidge had been obliged to rise to admit her, so that they knew it could not have been possible for Brownie to have escaped that way. They knew well enough if Brownie had escaped and returned to her post, that the deepest shame and disgrace awaited them. They little thought, however, during their anxious and almost ludicrous search in the cell, a pair of keen, bright eyes had been earnestly regarding them, while it must be confessed that Herbert Randal never enjoyed anything in his life so much as their anxiety and discomfiture regarding the beautiful maiden whom he had so opportunely aided. The two disappointed plotters were, however, somewhat reassured, upon descending to the drawing-room, to find that Brownie’s disappearance was still the theme of conversation, together with the startling announcement which Adrian Dredmond had made. Lady Randal looked anxious and annoyed, and was somewhat irritable. Lady Ruxley was too ill to rise, being overcome with solicitude as to the fate of her companion, a fact which was received with the most cheerful resignation by most of the company, since it relieved them from the sting of her sharp tongue. Sir Charles was very grave and preoccupied, and while he was not exactly cool, yet there was a certain dignity about him which somewhat awed his betrothed. There were some things which he could not understand, in particular, Adrian’s stern words and manner to Mrs. Coolidge, which the more he thought about them the more mysterious and inexplicable they became. Altogether it was not the happiest company in Christendom that assembled in the Vallingham Hall drawing-room that morning. Every door that opened made Isabel and her mother quake with fear, and both would gladly have given up every jewel in their possession to have been freed from that horrible suspense. Several days passed, and still there was no news. Their anxiety began to abate, and with every passing hour they breathed more freely, yet that puzzled, wearing question was ever before them: “Where is she?” The drawing-room concert, or musical _soirée_, came off according to appointment, but did not prove very satisfactory. It was not really a failure, but there was a lack of inspiration which made everything drag, and it was with a uniform sense of relief that at the end of the week the gay company dispersed, while Sir Charles, Lady Randal, Isabel, and her mother departed for Paris, intent upon the all-important _trousseau_. The two latter were only too eager to plunge into the pleasures of the gay French metropolis, and busy themselves with the cares which the next few weeks would involve, hoping thus to drive more unpleasant thoughts out of mind. * * * * *