The girl you met yesterday as Sarah Gissing was not your sister's maid, but another woman masquerading in her stead. I implore you and your mother to come to London and meet me in Mr. Dibbin's office. He knows the real Sarah Gissing, and will produce her. This was definite enough, and he thought the introduction of Dibbin's name would be helpful with Mrs. Mordaunt. Then he rushed off to see Dibbin himself, but learned from a clerk that the agent would not arrive from Scotland until six-thirty P.M., "which is a pity," said the clerk, ruefully, "because a first-rate commission has just come in for him by wire." "Some one in a hurry?" said Harcourt, speaking rather to cloak his own disappointment than out of any commiseration for Dibbin's loss. "I should think so, indeed. Fifty golden sovereigns sent by telegraph, just to get him quick to Portsmouth." David heard, and wondered. He made a chance shot. "I expect that is my friend, Van Hupfeldt," he said. "The very man!" gasped the clerk. "Oh, there is no harm done. Mr. Dibbin comes to King's Cross, I suppose?" "Yes. I shall be there to meet him." Certainly things were lively at Rigsworth. David had a serious notion of going there by the next train. But he returned to Eddystone Mansions, in case there might be an answer from Violet. Sure enough, there he found the telegram sent in her name by Van Hupfeldt. The time showed that it was despatched about the same hour as his own. At first, his heart danced with the joy of knowing that she still trusted him. And how truly wonderful that she mentioned Pangley, a town he had not named to her; there must, indeed, have been a tremendous eruption at Dale Manor. Yet it was too bad that he should be forced to leave London and go in chase of Mrs. Carter and the baby. Why, he would be utterly cut off from active communication with her for hours, and it was so vitally important that they should meet. Of course, he would obey, but first he would await the chance of a reply to his message. So he telegraphed again: Will go to Pangley. Tell me when I can see you. He was his own telegraph messenger. While he was out another buff envelope found its way to his table. Here was the confusion of a fog, for this screed ran: Miss Violet Mordaunt traveled to London this morning by the nine-eleven train. This is right. FRIEND. There was no name; but the post-office said the information came from Rigsworth, and the post-office indulges in cold official accuracy. Somehow, this word from a friend did strike him as friendly. It made him read again, and ponder weightily, the longer statement signed "Violet."