‘For the children’s sake,’ he muttered to himself, as he took his way downwards; ‘for Walter’s sake, and the others and Hannah, I must be brave and calm and not betray myself. Let me see! what time is it? Three o’clock! and I said I would return to the hotel about three. Well! I mustn’t hurry, it will look bad! I will go into a restaurant first and have my dinner!’ The thought of eating sickened him, but he persevered, and, entering the principal restaurant in the town, ordered an expensive meal. But when it was served he could not eat it. The food would have choked him. Something seemed to have closed in his throat and prevented his swallowing. Presently an idea struck him. Calling the waiter, he said,-- ‘I have some business to talk over with a friend in this town, and, as my time is short, I think it will facilitate matters if we dine together. Lay another plate and tell them to keep the dinner back till I return. I am going round to the hotel to fetch my friend. Keep the champagne in ice. I shall not be absent more than a few minutes.’ He left the restaurant as he spoke, and re-entered the vestibule of the Castle Warden Hotel. ‘Has Mrs Walcheren returned yet?’ he inquired, in an unconcerned voice. ‘No, sir; she has not. Mr Walcheren, he came home about half an hour ago, but he went out again. I really can’t say when they’ll be back, sir!’ Hindes took out his card and wrote on it in a very shaky hand:-- ‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant; but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or two. H. H.’ ‘Give this to Mrs Walcheren on her return, please,’ he said to the waiter, and took his way, as best he could, back to the Tivoli. There he forced himself to eat a little and drink a good deal, and, calling for the bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and departed in a cab to the station. He had done all he could. He should tell the Cramptons, he had called twice to interview Mrs Walcheren and been unsuccessful each time, and he had waited about Dover till four o’clock. It was Saturday, and he could not spend Sunday away from his wife and children. They would surely say that he had done all that was necessary, and more than they had required from him. He had tried to see her twice, and he had failed; they must wait now until Jenny wrote to them herself. ‘_Until Jenny wrote to them herself!_’ As the thought crossed his mind, Henry Hindes sunk back into the corner of the railway carriage, in the same comatose state in which he had been on the downs. The train flew screeching through the evening air, on its way to London, but time and place were alike unheeded by him. Had it been a dream--an unholy, lurid nightmare--or was it reality?