"I envy you your faith," he says, wearily; "I would give half--nay, all I possess, if I could say that honestly." Just at this moment there comes an interruption. "A telegram, my lord," says one of the men, handing in a yellow envelope. Sartoris, tearing it open, reads hurriedly. "I shall not go to town, Gale," he says, after a minute or two of thought. "Counter-order the carriage. Mr. Branscombe comes home to-night." CHAPTER XXII. "When there is a great deal of smoke, and no clear flame, it argues much moisture in the matter, yet it witnesseth, certainly, that there is fire there."--LEIGHTON. Long before the night has set in he comes; and, as he enters the room where his uncle sits awaiting him, Lord Sartoris tells himself that never before has he seen him so handsome, so tall, so good to look at. "Your telegram made me uneasy," he says, abruptly, "so I came back sooner than I had intended. Had you mine?" "Yes; some hours ago." "Did you want me, Arthur?" "Yes; but not your return here. I sent my telegram principally to learn your address, as I had made up my mind to go up to town. You have frustrated that plan." There is a meaning in his tone that puzzles Dorian. "You going to trust yourself alone in our great Babylon?" he says, raising his brows. "Why, the world must be coming to an end. What business had you there that I could not have managed for you?" "My business was with you." "Anything wrong?" says the young man, impatiently, tapping a table lightly with his fingers, and frowning somewhat heavily. "Your tone implies as much. Has anything happened in my absence to cause you annoyance? If so, let me know at once, and spare me any beating about the bush. Suspense is unpleasant." "It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving a few steps nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering poor old John Annersley!" "I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging his shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with old Annersley?" "Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have you not heard of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?" "'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. Why, where can she have gone?" "That is exactly what no one knows, except she herself, of course, and--one other." Then, turning impulsively to face his nephew, "I thought you could have told me where she is," he says, without giving himself time to think of all the words may convey to Dorian. "What do you mean?" demands Branscombe, throwing up his head, and flushing darkly. His eyes flash, his nostrils dilate. "Am I to infer from your last remark that you suspect _me_ of having something to do with her disappearance?"