The reply sank deep in Goring's heart, and he was perplexed when the official at the same time mysteriously shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with a deprecatory expression in his face. 'Is Lord Cadbury here?' 'Milord is out also,' was the reply. 'Also--then they are together!' thought Goring. 'Take up my card to Sir Ranald, and ask if he will receive me.' It was taken up by a waiter, who returned promptly to report, in Continental parlance, that 'Sir Cheyne desired him to walk up.' Much depended upon the issue of this visit if Alison was still free. He had come frankly, freely, to urge humbly his suit again, backed by the undoubted wealth which had flowed upon him since last they met at Chilcote. He found Sir Ranald in a handsome apartment, seated in an easy-chair, but looking pale, thin, and worn. He made no offer of his hand, as with both he grasped the arms of the chair, tremulous with rage, while his eyes glared like those of a rattlesnake through the glasses of his _pince-nez_ at his unexpected visitor, who scarcely knew how or where to begin, and looked nervously round him for some evidence of the recent presence of Alison, but saw nothing. 'Permit me to congratulate you, Sir Ranald--' he began. 'On what?' asked the other, savagely. 'On the escape from death by drowning which we were all led to suppose you and Miss Cheyne had suffered.' 'I don't want your congratulations; and, so far as Miss Cheyne is concerned, your appearance in Antwerp sufficiently accounts for her mysterious disappearance.' Utter bewilderment, in which emotions of dismay, fear, and anger coursed through his mind, tied the tongue of Bevil Goring--dismay and fear he knew not of what, and anger lest this was some fresh trickery of Lord Cadbury. 'Mysterious disappearance!' he faltered. 'Your conduct, Captain Goring, has been shamefully deceitful--most dishonourable!' exclaimed Sir Ranald, in a broken but still enraged tone. 'How?' 'You came to my house at Chilcote a welcome guest, then you stole the affections of my daughter. You have followed her to Antwerp with plans best known to yourself; and where--oh, where--is she now?' 'Sir Ranald!' expostulated Goring, piteously, and feeling his face grow pale. 'Talk not to me!' resumed Sir Ranald, in his tone of fury again; 'every silly girl thinks she is in love, or that she must love the first man who says he loves her.' These strange utterances made Goring half forget the errand on which he had come, and utterly forget the fortuitous but fortunate wealth which would, he hoped, have made that errand perhaps successful.