“Should she still refuse—I should give her time, use reason, persuasion, prayer: should not these avail, I should then use _my power_. I should compel Estelle to return with me.” “My lord?” “Yes, I repeat it. She shall not sacrifice herself to fanaticism. I will constrain my love to come home and be at peace?” Thus the two gentlemen parted: Mr. Oldfield to prepare for his return to his pastoral charge, Lord Montressor to make arrangements for his journey to London. His lordship was at the depot in full time. The train started at twelve. Swiftly as he was carried forward, this seemed the longest ride and the longest night he had ever known. Some minutes less than two hours brought him to Bristol and the Grand Junction, where half an hour served for change of cars; and thus at half-past three o’clock, he found himself whirled along through night, and mist, and rain, on the route toward London. Soon the morning dawned and reddened in the east behind what seemed a bank of cloud; it was the mingled mist and fog that overhung the leviathan of cities. The cars entered London from the West and reached the depot just as the sun arose. Lord Montressor took a hackney-coach and drove to a hotel in the immediate neighborhood of Lombard street. As it was now very early, some hours had yet to be lived through before he could hope to find the bankers at their place of business. He ordered an apartment, and got through the time as well as he could by making his morning toilet and attempting his morning meal. Directly after breakfast, he entered a carriage and drove to the banking-house of Scofield Brothers. He inquired for either of the owners, and was ushered into a back office where the junior partner sat writing at a desk. “Good-morning, sir,” said Lord Montressor, advancing—“You are——” “John Scofield, at your service,” answered the banker, rising. “Lord Montressor.” “Happy to see you, my lord. Pray be seated”—handing a chair. “Hope we may be able to serve you this morning?” “I thank you, sir.” Lord Montressor looked for an instant into the honest face of the banker, and then with the air of a man who states a fact known to himself, rather than one who asks information upon a subject, he said: “Lady Montressor was with you yesterday?” “Yes, my lord.” “And withdrew her deposits, of course?” “She did, my lord.” Lord Montressor paused. How to frame his next inquiry as to the whereabouts of Estelle, without exciting the astonishment and conjecture of the man to whom he spoke, was now the difficulty. However, the question must be put. Lord Montressor was not one to shrink; besides, what indeed was the importance of Mr. John Scofield’s surmises and speculations to Lord Montressor? “Favor me with Lady Montressor’s London address, if you please, sir,” said his lordship, quietly. It was not with surprise nor wonder, but with simple consternation, that the banker stood dumbfounded!