Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or masculine?--he risked it and left it neuter and continued. When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy. He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and returned. He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across. That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. She would never read it through. He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading of Rochester's death in the paper. Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then sat down comfortably to read what he had written. He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his seat in the armchair and began to think of the devil. Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary forlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause. The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild. She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it and began peeling off a glove. "She's gone," said Venetia. Jones had risen to his feet. "Who's gone?" "Teresa--gone with Maniloff." He sat down. Then she blazed out. "Are you going to do nothing--are you going to sit there and let us all be disgraced? She's gone--she's going--to Paris. It was through her maid I learned it; she's gone from the hotel by this--gone with Maniloff--are you deaf or simply stupid? You _must_ follow her." He rose. "Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything--I will go with you. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria, you have only just time to catch it." "I have no money," said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, "only about four pounds." "I have," replied she, "and our car is at the door--are you afraid, or is it that you don't mind?" "Come on," said Jones. He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him in the side. He was furious. There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it was Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act.