"My lord--sir--?" I stammered. "Sir," he continued, "you will doubtless have very many excellent excuses to offer for your perfectly inexcusable conduct--but doubtless you will at least have the good taste to keep them to yourself. Whatever your reasons, you have been the cause of much pain and very many bitter tears to--to one I hold inexpressibly dear." "My lord, I--I have been ill--" "And it is, I believe, mainly owing to her devotion that you still--gladden the world, sir." "My lord, I am here to--to--give Diana my hand in fulfilment of my promise." "Are you indeed, Mr. Vereker--you surprise me!" "To marry her whenever she will, sir." "Permit me to remark that you are perhaps a little tardy." "None the less I am here, sir!" "Your condescension, Mr. Vereker, is somewhat overpowering, such magnanimity I find vastly touching. But Diana, I am assured, had no idea of permitting you thus to immolate yourself on the altar of duty." "That, my lord, by your favour, I mean to learn from her own lips--at once." "Impossible, sir!" he retorted, smiling bitterly. "Quite--quite impossible." "Impossible, my lord--impossible? Pray what--sir, what do you mean?" I stammered. "That if indeed you are minded--a little late in the day perhaps--but if--after very mature deliberation--you at last think fit to fulfil your pledge to Diana, it will of course be necessary that you first discover her present whereabouts." "Is she not here at Wyvelstoke with you, my lord?" "Emphatically not, sir!" "Then she is with Mrs. Vere-Manville at Nettlestead or in London--at least I will go there--at once." "Then you will waste your time, sir. Diana has disappeared." "Disappeared? Ah, you mean she has gone--run away? Pray, my lord, pray when--when did she go?" His lordship looked at me keenly a while and when he spoke his voice seemed less harsh: "The news would seem to disturb you, sir?" "Beyond words, sir. Henceforth I shall know little rest until I find her. Pray when did she leave you--and how?" "She fled--yesterday morning--stole from Wyvelstoke before daybreak--she was seen by one of the keepers stealing away in the dawn. She fled away to--hide her grief--leaving behind all her jewels and--a very--solitary, very old--man. She was all I had--my comrade, my Penthesilea--my loved daughter--" His lordship's voice broke upon the word, his usually upright figure seemed suddenly bowed and shrunken, he looked indeed a very grief-stricken, decrepit old man as he stood fumbling in the pockets of his shabby coat, whence he presently drew a letter that shook and rustled in his fingers as he unfolded it. "She left this also, sir," he continued with an evident effort, "pray read it--you will find some mention of--breaking hearts the which should interest you a little--read it, sir!" So I took the letter and saw it was this: