The first step he proposed for himself was to question Sundran. It would depend, he knew, upon her own dull and dogged views of what was her mistress’s interest whether she would condescend to open her lips to him either for truth or falsehood. But he thought he might be able to prove to her by the evidence of his unquestionable devotion that he could have no aim but her mistress’s happiness, and if this could once be made clear to the woman, Lord Florencecourt’s careful avoidance of her was enough to show that she could make important revelations. But George was met on the very threshold of his investigations by an undreamt-of difficulty. When the train arrived at Liverpool Street he put Nouna at once into a cab, and went back to the train to fetch Sundran, who had not yet found her way to her mistress. But she had disappeared. In vain he examined every compartment in turn, and scanned the crowd on the platform. Inquiries of the porter at last elicited that a dark-skinned woman in white had sprung out of a compartment before the train stopped, and driven off at once in a cab. George returned to his wife, saying simply that Sundran had gone off before them, but as the inspector at the gate of the station took the number of their cab, George called to the driver to stop, and asked the official if he had noticed a black woman pass out, adding that she was his wife’s maid, knew very little English, and he was afraid she might have made a mistake with the address. “I saw her, sir. I think the number of the cab was fifty-seven,” said the man, referring to his list. George thanked him, and the cab drove off. Nouna looked at her husband in astonishment. “She won’t make a mistake, George. Sundran is not so silly.” “I don’t think she is. But I want to find out where she’s gone.” “Then you think she’s run away! Why should she? Where would she go?” asked Nouna breathlessly. “Well, well, we don’t know yet whether she’s gone at all.” But when they got home and found that Sundran had not arrived, George decided that he would wait one hour, filling up the time with a visit to the parish church; and then, if she still failed to appear, he would call at 36, Mary Street, where he suspected her to be, on his way to Liverpool Street station. He intended to return to Willingham that night, and get through the interview with the Colonel. A packet of letters was handed to him, in which he found one for his wife. Seeing that the handwriting was masculine and unknown to him, George turned it over jealously. “Who is this from, Nouna?” he asked, holding it over her head, high above her reach. A red flood ran at once under the delicate brown skin. “How can I tell if you hold it all that way off?” she asked, making a futile spring to reach it. She was much excited, but by what emotion he could not tell. “Well, now,” and he held it near to her face, guarding it with both hands from the expected clutch.