At last he seemed to be satisfied that the ground was clear, and with a smile of triumph on his lip he stepped out, drawing Julia after him; but as he reached the pavement he heard the steps of the two gentlemen once more, and uttering a fierce oath he hurried his prize along faster and faster, as he felt that their evasion had been seen. "Quicker, my lass, quicker!" he said, gruffly; and she had to obey him. But she was growing faint. She held up, though, till she reached the cab, into which he hurried her. And now for the first time the reality of her position seemed to force itself upon her, and she started up with a wild cry. Too late! With one hand he thrust her back into the seat as with the other he drew up the window, and her next feeble cry was drowned by the noise of the jangling panes. In his agony of grief and horror the Rector could hardly believe in the possibility of that which Artingale reluctantly told; for when he appealed to his child he could not get a word from her, but hysterical cries for her sister, whom she accused herself of having neglected and allowed to go. It was impossible, the Rector declared, and after a long discussion he insisted upon the matter being kept quiet, refusing to take any steps in the way of pursuit till he had seen his son. It would all come right, he was sure, he said; and finding that nothing could be done, Artingale left the house, after hearing from the doctor, who had been sent for, that he need be under no apprehension concerning Cynthia. "What next?" he said to Magnus. "To find her," said the artist, "wherever she is, and to bring her back--poor lost lamb! Oh, Harry, they have driven the poor girl mad!" "I'm with you, Magnus," said Artingale, "to the end. Come on; we have lost much valuable time, but I could not stir till I saw what her father intended to do." He hailed a cab. "Scotland Yard!" he shouted, and the man drove on. "If it costs me all I've got I'll have her back. I look upon her as a sister. Poor girl! poor girl! she must have been mad indeed." "Harry," whispered Magnus, "what are you going to do?" and his voice sounded hoarse and strange. "Put the best dogs to be had upon the trail to run them down." "And then?" "Get the scoundrel transported for life. And you?" "I'm going with you to-night, or this morning, or whatever it is; to-morrow I'm going to buy a pistol." "And blow out your brains?" cried Artingale. "Bah! what's the use of that?" "No," said Magnus, turning his haggard face to his friend, "to shoot him as I would a rabid dog." "And be put on your trial for murder. No; my plan's best." "Your plan!" said Magnus, fiercely. "What can you do? You forget the circumstances of the case. Before we can reach them the scoundrel will have married her. You cannot touch him." Artingale ground his teeth as he seemed to realise the truth of what was said. Then, turning, he urged the man on to greater speed.