"Indeed, no, sir, more’s the pity, sir, it was a honour to this pore ouse, and heverythink paid up like a genelman, though many’s the time I was sayin to the missis as she needn’t be so ard——" "Where have they gone, then?" the younger man demanded, peremptorily. "Lor bless ye, sir, it took me all of a suddent—they didn’t say nothin about that, sir—and I was that upset, sir——" Vincent glanced at his watch: five minutes past four was the time. "Oh, I see," he said, with a fine carelessness (for there were wild and alarming suspicions darting through his brain). "They’re going to remain in Brighton, I dare say. Well, good-bye, Hobson! About those bits of things I sent up—you keep them for yourself—tell Mrs. Hobson I make her a present of them—you needn’t say anything about them to anybody." He left the house. He quickly crossed the street, and went up to his own rooms: the table there was a blank—he had almost expected as much. Then he went out again, hailed a hansom, drove down to Victoria-station, and caught the four-thirty train to Brighton. When he reached the lodging-house in German Place, he hardly dared knock: he seemed to know already what was meant by this hurried and stealthy departure. His worst fears were immediately confirmed. Mr. Bethune—Miss Bethune—had left the previous morning. And did no one know whither they had gone? No one. And there was no message—no letter—for any one who might call? There was no message—no letter. The young man turned away. It was raining: he did not seem to care. Out there in the dark was the solitary light at the end of the pier: why, how many days had gone by since she had said to him, with tears running down her cheeks—’Vincent, I love you!—I love you!—you are my dearest in all the world!—remember that always!’ And what was this that she had done?—for that it was of her doing; he had no manner of doubt. Enough: his heart, that had many a time been moved to pity by her solitariness, her friendlessness, had no more pity now. Pride rose in its place—pride, and reproach, and scorn. There was but the one indignant cry ringing in his ears—"False love—false love—and traitress!" END OF VOL. II. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.