"I will look round again shortly," he remarked, after he had examined the correspondence once more, and felt in the letter-box to make sure no missive had been overlooked. "Very well, sir," said Mr. Kleinwort's clerk. The day wore on, and Mr. Forde looked "round again" often, but still with the same result. He telegraphed to Hastings, but elicited no reply. By the evening's post he wrote requesting that a telegram might be sent to the wharf immediately on receipt of his letter to say by which train Mr. Kleinwort might be expected in town. He received no telegram; nothing had been heard from Mr. Kleinwort at that gentleman's office; the head clerk feared he could not be so well; and Mr. Forde started off by the next train to Hastings. Arrived there, he ascertained Mr. and Mrs. Kleinwort had left for London on the previous Friday evening. By the time Mr. Forde again reached the City all business was over for the day, and the offices closed for the night, therefore the unhappy manager, dreading he knew not what, fearing some evil to which he felt afraid to give a shape or a name, repaired to Mr. Kleinwort's private residence. He looked up at the house, and as he did so his heart sank within him; not a light was to be seen in any one of the windows, the lower shutters were closed, there was straw littering about the garden. His worst enemy might have pitied him as he stood there hoping he was dreaming, hoping he should wake to find that he had been struggling with some horrible nightmare. When he could gather strength to do it, he began knocking at the door--knocking till he woke the deserted house with echoes that simulated the sound of hurrying feet--knocking till the neighbours opened their doors, and put their heads out of the windows to ascertain what was the matter. "There is no one in that house, sir," shouted an irascible gentleman from the next balcony. "There is no use in your trying to knock the door down. The house is empty, sir. The family left a week ago, and the last of the furniture was removed on Saturday." "Where have they gone?" asked Mr. Forde in a weak husky voice, which sounded to his own ears like that of some different person. "To South America. Mr. Kleinwort has got an appointment there under his own government." That was enough. The manager knew for certain Kleinwort had thrown him over, that he had eight days' start of any one who might try to follow. How it had been managed; how the Hastings juggle was performed; who had helped him to hoodwink those who might be interested concerning his whereabouts, he felt too sick and dizzy even to imagine. There was only a single fact he was able to realise; namely, that between him and ruin there stood now but one man, and that man Henry Werner. CHAPTER VII. MORTOMLEY UNDERSTANDS AT LAST.