In the mean while Honor, unconscious of the events that had occurred, and the calamities which had befallen those in whom she was so deeply interested, had supported for another weary night and day the suspense which she found hourly more difficult of endurance. Then the courage that had hitherto supported her began to flag, and she half resolved--wholly objectionable as was the plan, and revolting to every feeling of womanly modesty--to endeavour by inquiry at Arthur’s house to obtain some information concerning him. That some evil, some sudden accident or grievous sickness, had overtaken her only friend, Honor could not but believe; and it was this belief, joined to a certain pride which lingered in her still (for, after all, Arthur _might_ be simply false), that prevented her from having recourse to her former plan--namely, that of writing to Arthur at his house or at his club. To sally forth after dark; to call a cab, and to be driven to within a few yards of Mr. Duberly’s house; and when there to make a few insignificant inquiries of the servant which might lead to something like elucidation of her doubts and fears, seemed a plan not very difficult of execution; and Honor was still pondering on its expediency when to her surprise (for she had ceased to expect such consolations) a letter was put into her hand by Mrs. Casey--a letter, too, which she perceived at once was from Arthur Vavasour. Hurrying with her treasure into the inner room, which was her bedchamber, and utterly regardless of Mrs. Casey’s feelings as a friend and would-be confidante, Honor tore open the envelope, when the first writing that met her eye was her own! Casting the note directed by herself impatiently on one side, she opened another inclosure--one of deeply-bordered mourning-paper, and read as follows: