Aunt Anne retired early. The butler did not, for it was his duty to sit up and admit the gentlemen. Alison returned about half-past eleven, and went at once to his room, while the butler once more settled himself down in an easy-chair to wait, and went to sleep, awaking in the morning stiff and unrefreshed to find that his waiting up had been in vain. A couple of hours later, when he took in the breakfast, he had two announcements to make; but he hesitated, as Isabel had just entered the room. "You can speak out. What is it?" said Aunt Anne. "Mr Neil hasn't been back all night, ma'am." "What?" "And--" The butler stopped. "Well, speak, man; there is nothing wrong?" cried Aunt Anne. "No, ma'am, I hope not," said the butler; "but the nurse was down quite early, ma'am, dressed, and Smithers put the horse to in the light cart, and drove her over to the station to catch the early morning train." "Oh!" ejaculated Aunt Anne; and then, excitedly, "Was she alone?" "I believe so, ma'am. Shall I ask?" "No: there is no need. I thought it all along. Eloped. I knew it would be so." Isabel rose from her seat with flaming cheeks. "Shame!" she cried passionately. "This, before the servants! Neil is my brother. Nurse Elisia is my dear friend. It is not true!" CHAPTER THIRTY. SIR DENTON ASTONISHED. Neil Elthorne could hardly recall the events of the next twenty-four hours. He had some dim recollection of walking blindly on and on, with his head throbbing from the mental fever within; of the wind beating against him, and the rain feeling cool to his heated brow; and at last seeing lights, entering a station, and listening to the dull, heavy rush of a coming train--sounds which seemed in accordance with the beating in his temples, and the dull, low roar in his brain. Then he had faint memories of passing swiftly through the dark night, with the windows of the compartment in which he sat blurred by the rain, and, finally, of gliding into the great, blank, gloomy terminus, an hour before day-break, and staggering through it to where cabs were standing beneath the great glass arch. The rattle of the streets sounded faintly in his ears, and all appeared strange and terrible, as if he were in some fevered dream, from which he awoke at last on the couch in his own chambers in Farrow's Inn, to find that it was night again, and that he must, like some wounded beast, have mechanically crept back to his lair, there to wait until strength returned or the end should come. He rose mechanically, went out, and made his way to his club, where he was faintly conscious that the waiters who brought up his dinner exchanged glances, and gazed at him furtively. Someone came to him, too, and asked him if he were unwell, and then, still as if in a dream, he rode back to his chambers, and lay down again to sleep. The long rest brought calm to his confused brain, and he rose late the next morning from what more resembled a stupor than a natural sleep.