This was all that letters or journal could tell the investigator. But Lucius told himself that the rest would be easy to discover. He had name, date, locality. The name, too, was not a common name; Burke’s _Landed Gentry_ or _County Families_ would doubtless help him to identify that Henry Glenlyne who married Félicie Dumarques at the church in Piccadilly. These letters had done much; for they had assured him of Lucille’s legitimacy. This made all clear before him; he need no longer fear to pluck the curtain from the mystery of the past, lest he should reveal a story of dishonour. He took some brief notes from Mr. Glenlyne’s letter, and thanked Mademoiselle Dumarques for her politeness, promising that if the niece should profit by the use of these documents, the aunt should be amply requited for any assistance they afforded; and then he took a courteous leave of the dressmaker and her apprentice, the monotonous click of whose needle had not ceased during his visit. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Lucius left Mademoiselle Dumarques. He had thought of getting back to Dieppe in time for that evening’s boat, so as to arrive in London by the following morning—he had taken a return ticket by this longer but cheaper route. He found, however, that the strain upon his attention during the last forty-eight hours, the night journey by Newhaven and Dieppe, combined with many an anxious day and night in the past, had completely worn him out. ‘I must have another night’s rest before I travel, or I shall go off my head,’ he said to himself. ‘I am beginning to feel that confused sense of time and place which is the forerunner of mental disturbance. No; it would be of some importance to me to save a day, but I won’t run the risk of knocking myself up. I’ll go back to Dieppe by the next train, and sleep there to-night.’ CHAPTER IV. COMING TO MEET HIS DOOM. The passage from Dieppe to Newhaven was of the roughest. Lucius beheld his fellow voyagers in the last stage of prostration, and prescribed for more than one forlorn female on whom the sea malady had fastened with alarming grip. The steamer was one scene of suffering, and Lucius, being happily exempt from the common affliction, did his best to be useful, so far as the limited means of treatment on board the vessel enabled him. The wind was high, and the passengers on board the Newhaven boat, who had never seen the waves that beat against the rock-bound coast of Newfoundland, thought that shipwreck was within the possibilities of the voyage, and asked the captain with doleful countenances if he thought they should ever reach Newhaven. It was late in the evening when the train from Newhaven deposited Lucius at London-bridge. But late as it was, he took a cab, left his bag at his own door, and then went on to Cedar House. His first duty, he told himself, was to Homer Sivewright, the old man who had so fully trusted him, and so reluctantly parted with him.