Letty came closer to him--his drawn stricken face affected her profoundly. She seized his hand in both of hers, and suddenly broke down. “Good-bye, Lancelot; good-bye,” she sobbed hysterically. “I know you will despise me, and forget me; but as long as I live I shall love you, better than anyone in the whole world--better than Cara. But my duty is to her; if I went with you, I should always, always, be looking back.” “Poor Letty, I’ll try, and forgive you,” he answered huskily; “but from the bottom of my heart, I believe you are spoiling two lives; and the day may come, when you will find it hard to forgive yourself,” and with a violent wrench he opened the door. It was a strangely pale and agitated couple who descended into the great hall, and a few minutes later drove away to the station: a waiter going into the empty room, found too late, that the lady had forgotten a very damp pocket-handkerchief, and a handsome umbrella with a gold handle, on which was inscribed, “Mrs. Blagdon, Sharsley Court.” On their way down Piccadilly Captain Lumley and his companion encountered a steady stream of hansoms carrying their gay fares to dinners or the theatres. The two, who held one another’s hands in agonised silence, seemed to be journeying away from life, and all its joys, and facing together--a dark and hopeless future. As soon as Letty had secured her ticket she said: “We will say good-bye now, Lancelot--please don’t come on the platform. You know this is the fast train--and I may meet neighbours.” And there, under the flaming lamps, in the ugly, bare booking-office, came to these, who were so much to one another, that transcendent moment of a miserable and silent farewell. As Letty looked up into her lover’s face, her heart felt a piercing stab; she had once encountered a poor lost dog, with the self-same expression in its eyes. A moment later, she was hurrying along the platform, asking for the train to Ridgefield. “Sorry, miss,” replied an official, “but you’ve just missed her,” indicating a round red light that was vanishing into a tunnel; and the runaway had lost her only opportunity of returning home that night! This discovery was a shock: she felt vanquished--and half distracted, but recovering her courage, and summoning her wits to her assistance, she made over her luggage to a porter, and departed in quest of a bedroom in the Terminus Hotel. CHAPTER XXI Mr. Blagdon was a late riser; on this particular morning it was eleven o’clock as he stood lathering his great sensual face, in front of a shaving-glass. The operation was but half completed, when his valet entered, and, clearing his throat, said: “Beg pardon, sir, but Mrs. Blagdon has just arrived and is asking to see you.” Blagdon’s somewhat shaky hand slipped, and gave his chin a gash. When he had carefully plastered it up, he turned to the man, with an alarming scowl. “Jenkins didn’t let her in, did he?” “Yes, sir, he did. She’s in the morning-room.”