"Since reading the letter I have been endeavouring to recollect exactly what he did say; and the impression on my mind is, that he spoke of Gordon as being _probably_ dead; not that he knew it for a certainty. How I could overlook the point so as not to have inquired into it more fully, I cannot imagine. But, you see, we were not discussing details that night, or questioning facts: we were trying to disarm him--get him not to proceed against you; and for myself, I confess I was so utterly stunned that half my wits had left me." "What is to be done?" "We must endeavour to ascertain where Gordon is," replied Mr. Carr, as he re-enclosed the letter in his pocket-book. "I'll write and inquire what _his_ grounds are for thinking he is in England; and then trace him out--if he is to be traced. You give me carte-blanche to act?" "You know I do, Carr." "All right." "And when you have traced him--what then?" "That's an after-question, and I must be guided by circumstances. And now I'll wish you good-night," continued the barrister, rising. "It's a shame to have kept you up; but the letter contains some consolation, and I knew I could not bring it you to-morrow." The drawing-room was lighted when Lord Hartledon went upstairs; and his wife sat there with a book, as if she meant to remain up all night. She put it down as he entered. "Are you here still, Maude! I thought you were tired when you came home." "I felt tired because I met no one I cared for," she answered, in rather fractious tones. "Every one we know is leaving town, or has left." "Yes, that's true." "I shall leave too. I don't mind if we go to-morrow." "To-morrow!" he echoed. "Why, we have the house for three weeks longer." "And if we have? We are not obliged to remain in it." Lord Hartledon put back the curtain, and stood leaning out at the open window, seeking a breath of air that hot summer's night, though indeed there was none to be found; and if there had been, it could not have cooled the brow's inward fever. The Park lay before him, dark and misty; the lights of the few vehicles passing gleamed now and again; the hum of life was dying out in the streets, men's free steps, careless voices. He looked down, and wondered whether any one of those men knew what care meant as _he_ knew it; whether the awful skeleton, that never quitted him night or day, could hold such place with another. He was Earl of Hartledon; wealthy, young, handsome; he had no bad habits to hamper him; and yet he would willingly have changed lots at hazard with any one of those passers-by, could his breast, by so doing, have been eased of its burden. "What are you looking at, Val?" His wife had come up and stolen her arm within his, as she asked the question, looking out too. "Not at anything in particular," he replied, making a prisoner of her hand. "The night's hot, Maude." "Oh, I am getting tired of London!" she exclaimed. "It is always hot now; and I believe I ought to be away from it." "Yes."