"At last!" she thought, "at last it has come. I fancied all danger was over--the death, perhaps, had forestalled me; and now, after all these years, I am summoned to keep my broken promise!" The hue of death had settled on her face; she sat cold and rigid, staring with that blank, fixed gaze into the fire. Ceaselessly beat the rain; wilder grew the December day; steadily the moments wore on, and still she sat in that fixed trance. The armula clock struck two--the sound aroused her at last. "I must!" she said, setting her teeth. "I will! My boy shall not lose his birthright, come what may!" She rose and rang the bell--very pale, but icily calm. Her maid answered the summons. "Eliza," my lady asked, "at what hour does the afternoon train leave St. Gosport for London!" Eliza stared--did not know, but would ascertain. In five minutes she was back. "At half-past three, my lady; and another at seven." Lady Thetford glanced at the clock--it was a quarter past two. "Tell William to have the carriage at the door at a quarter past three; and do you pack my dressing case, and the few things I shall need for two or three days' absence. I am going to London." Eliza stood for a moment quite petrified. In all the nine years of her service under my lady, no such order as this had ever been received. To go to London at a moment's notice--my lady, who rarely went beyond her own park gates! Turning away, not quite certain that her ears had not deceived her, my lady's voice arrested her. "Send Mrs. Weymore to me; and do you lose no time in packing up." Eliza departed. Mrs. Weymore appeared. My lady had some instructions to give concerning the children during her absence. Then the governess was dismissed, and she was again alone. Through the wind and rain of the wintry storm, Lady Thetford was driven to the station, in time to catch the three-fifty train to the metropolis. She went unattended; with no message to any one, only saying she would be back in three days at the furthest. In that dull household, where so few events ever disturbed the stagnant quiet, this sudden journey produced an indescribable sensation. What could have taken my lady to London at a moment's notice? Some urgent reason it must have been to force her out of the gloomy seclusion in which she had buried herself since her husband's death. But, discuss it as they might, they could come no nearer the heart of the mystery. CHAPTER VI. GUY. The rainy December day closed in a rainier night. Another day dawned on the world, sunless, and chilly, and overcast still. It dawned on London in murky, yellow fog, on sloppy, muddy streets--in gloom and dreariness, and a raw, easterly wind. In the densely populated streets of the district of Lambeth, where poverty huddled in tall, gaunt buildings, the dismal light stole murkily and slowly over the crowded, filthy streets and swarming purlieus.