With that he went up-stairs in a furious temper with the man who had insulted him, and had evidently intended to offer violence to his person. Before he had reached the first landing, there was an impatient but not a very loud knock at the door. The servant repeated his young master’s message, put out the hall lights, and gladly enough went off to bed. Caleb stood in the portico hesitating as to what he should do. He had been waiting there for hours; he had been told that Mr Coutts Hadleigh was not at home—the servant declined to say where he might be found. The snow and the cold did not appear to affect him. He waited, and at last the man had come, but had not given the watcher any satisfaction. Caleb was aware that his application was untimely: but that was not his fault: the circumstances were exceptional. He must know from this villain what he had done with Pansy, and then he would seek her father, whose authority would rescue her from the evil influence under which she had fallen. The poor fellow never thought that his first step ought to have been to consult Pansy’s father. A natural delicacy, rude and earnest, made him shrink from the idea, because he felt sure it would cause him pain. He learned from his friends in the village that Pansy had gone away somewhere; and as the gardener had no special need or liking to speak of her grandfather, he had not mentioned to any of his gossips whither she had gone. So Caleb, sitting in a train which was just starting, having caught sight of Pansy and Coutts Hadleigh talking together on the platform at Liverpool Street Station, instantly concluded that there was something wrong. He would have jumped out of the carriage; but the other passengers prevented him, and he had to endure cruel torments of speculation and rage until he reached his destination. He had no hope of winning Pansy; but he might save her from the fate to which she seemed to be hasting. He had no doubt she had been taught to repeat some falsehood to her father, which kept him quiet about her absence, and he had no doubt of her danger. Then with a sullen resolution, in which the anxiety of a lover was combined with the suppressed fury of a maniac, he sought Coutts Hadleigh, determined to force the truth from him. In those cold weary hours when he was hanging about the Manor waiting, the words of Philip frequently recurred to him: ‘Trust her, man; trust her.’ He imagined that he did trust her; he was sure that she did not mean to do wrong. But at the same time the wicked comment of Wrentham also presented itself, reminding him that trust gave the woman opportunity to deceive. He did not like the man who spoke or the words he uttered; but the remembrance made him uneasy.