But he went at last; and Ella's name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking. The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration in his son's face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation. He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man's comfort. "About this dinner at the Brays', Charley: I should like to go," Sir Philip said--"that is, if you will go with me." "Do you particularly wish it, sir?" said Charley. "It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement." "Engagement!" said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip. "No, father, I have no engagements. I'll go." "But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself?--how do you pass your time?" "Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum, father," said Charley, with a cynical laugh; and the old man felt a swelling in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable conversation in the library. There was a something in Charley's looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate: had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter. "Has my son gone out?" he asked. "Think not, Sir Philip. I'll make inquiry." Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned. "No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom." Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs. He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread had invaded the troubled father's breast, so that when he reached his son's room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly. There was no reply. Volume 2, Chapter XXII. ACCIDENT OR DESIGN? Sir Philip Vining tried the door again and again, shaking it loudly, and repeating his son's name; but there was no reply. What should he do--summon assistance and have the room broken open? He dreaded calling for aid, to bring up the curious to gaze upon his anguish, and perhaps upon-- He seemed to check his thoughts there by a tremendous effort, and turning round, he gazed in both directions along the well-lit thickly-carpeted corridor. There was no one in sight, neither could he hear a sound.