"And then, Tom dear," whispered Tryphie, throwing her arms about his neck--"There, do you believe I care for you now?" "My little pet," he whispered hoarsely, and rushed away just as Mr Hurkle came up undulating, and looking more like a pulled out concertina than ever. "Sorry I've been so long, sir," he panted; "but I understand I am required to--" "Go to the devil," cried Tom, brushing past him; and as the daylight was growing broader the cab drove into Great Scotland Yard, where there was a certain conversation, and wires were set to work, after which there was an adjournment for breakfast to an hotel at Charing Cross. "Are--are we going in pursuit, my dear boy?" said his lordship, feebly. "Yes, certainly, and in earnest." "When, my dear Tom?" "Now directly, father," said the young man sternly. "The poor girl has been driven mad by her mother's cruelty; and in a wild fit of infatuation she has preferred to share the fortunes of this handsome foreign vagabond to marrying a worn-out _roue_." "But, my dear Tom, it is impossible." "Look here, father," said the young man, "the poor girl's future is at stake. She has been cruelly treated. Our behaviour to Charley Melton was simply disgusting--one day he was worshipped, supposed to have money; the next he was forbidden the house, because he was poor. As for Maude's feelings--of course, poor girl, as a young lady of fashion, she ought to have had none. I hope mamma is satisfied with her new son-in-law." "But--but where are we going?" "Don't know yet," said the young man, harshly. "To Paris certain-- probably to Italy. Maybe, though," he said, with a bitter laugh, "only as far as the padrone's at Saffron Hill." By the time father and son had made a very poor breakfast, a sergeant was ushered in by the waiter. "We've got the cabman, sir." "Well, where did he take them?" "Charing Cross station, sir." "Of course," said Tom--"they would just catch the night train for the tidal boat. Come along, father." "Too soon for the train yet, sir," said the sergeant; "but I dare say they'll have been stopped at Folkestone or Dover, unless it was a dodge, and they haven't left town." "You see to that," said Tom; "I'll go on to Folkestone." "Right, sir," and in due time the pair--father and son--were in pursuit, with the wheels of the fast train seeming always to grind out a tune such as is played by an organ whose handle is turned by a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian; while when the engine stopped, instead of calling out the name of the station, the men seemed to whine--"Ah, signora--ah, bella signora," and in his irritation Tom lit a cigar, and yelled forth the word condemnation in its most abbreviated form. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. ON THE TRACK. Telegram-- "From Barmouth, Folkestone, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London. "No news as yet." This was the first sent during the chase. "From Barmouth, Beurice's, Paris, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.