It was quite dark when they drove on to the wharf at which the boat for Venice lay. When they arrived, a plan had occurred to Staniford, through the timidity which had already succeeded the boldness of his desperation. “Dunham,” he said, “I want you to go on board, and see if she's there. I don't think I could stand not finding her. Besides, if she's cheerful and happy, perhaps I'd better not see her. You can come back and report. Confound it, you know, I should be so conscious before that infernal uncle of hers. You understand!” “Yes, yes,” returned Dunham, eager to serve Staniford in a case like this. “I'll manage it.” “Well,” said Staniford, beginning to doubt the wisdom of either going aboard, “do it if you think best. I don't know--” “Don't know what?” asked Dunham, pausing in the door of the _fiacre_. “Oh, nothing, nothing! I hope we're not making fools of ourselves.” “You're morbid, old fellow!” said Dunham, gayly. He disappeared in the darkness, and Staniford waited, with set teeth, till he came back. He seemed a long time gone. When he returned, he stood holding fast to the open fiacre-door, without speaking. “Well!” cried Staniford, with bitter impatience. “Well what?” Dunham asked, in a stupid voice. “Were they there?” “I don't know. I can't tell.” “Can't tell, man? Did you go to see?” “I think so. I'm not sure.” A heavy sense of calamity descended upon Staniford's heart, but patience came with it. “What's the matter, Dunham?” he asked, getting out tremulously. “I don't know. I think I've had a fall, somewhere. Help me in.” Staniford got out and helped him gently to the seat, and then mounted beside him, giving the order for their return. “Where is your hat?” he asked, finding that Dunham was bareheaded. “I don't know. It doesn't matter. Am I bleeding?” “It's so dark, I can't see.” “Put your hand here.” He carried Staniford's hand to the back of his head. “There's no blood; but you've had an ugly knock there.” “Yes, that's it,” said Dunham. “I remember now; I slipped and struck my head.” He lapsed away in a torpor; Staniford could learn nothing more from him. The hurt was not what Staniford in his first anxiety had feared, but the doctor whom they called at the hotel was vague and guarded as to everything but the time and care which must be given in any event. Staniford despaired; but there was only one thing to do. He sat down beside his friend to take care of him. His mind was a turmoil of regrets, of anxieties, of apprehensions; but he had a superficial calmness that enabled him to meet the emergencies of the case. He wrote a letter to Lydia which he somehow knew to be rightly worded, telling her of the accident. In terms which conveyed to her all that he felt, he said that he should not see her at the time he had hoped, but promised to come to Venice as soon as he could quit his friend. Then, with a deep breath, he put that affair away for the time, and seemed to turn a key upon it.