Trained watcher of the mind and human impulse as he was, psychologist of marvellous knowledge and penetration, he began to see, or so he thought to himself, that all was not yet lost, that it might well be that the events of the last few weeks would some day--not yet or soon, but some day--place him upon a higher pedestal than ever before. On the evening of the fourth day after his arrival, Sir William Gouldesbrough returned to town. In the afternoon he had driven with Lord Landsend and Percy Alemare to the cemetery. It had been a cold and blustering afternoon, and the plain hearse and the single carriage that followed it had trotted through the semi-deserted streets until the grave-side was reached. The shivering vicar of a neighbouring church, whose turn it was to take the cemetery duty for the week, had said the words of the burial-service, and in some half-an-hour all that was mortal of Mr. Eustace Charliewood had disappeared for ever and a day. He would never stroll up Bond Street in his fur coat any more. Never again would he chat with the head-waiter upon the important question of a lunch. No longer would Mr. Proctor, the masseur, set the little rubber hammers to beat out the lines of dissipation upon that weak and handsome face. Mr. Eustace Charliewood had resigned his membership of the St. James's Street Clubs, and had passed out of Vanity Fair into the night. After the funeral, Gouldesbrough went to say good-bye to Lady Poole and Marjorie. His last words to them were these-- "I shall go on," he said, "doing all that I can in every possible way. And everything that I do I will let you know, and if I can discover the slightest clue to this terrible mystery, you shall hear it at once. But don't buoy yourself up with false hopes, that is all I ask. None of us can say what the future may have in store, but for my part I have not much hope. It may seem a cruel thing for me to say, Marjorie, but I think it is my duty to say it. Bear up and be brave, and remember that I am always close by to do anything I can in any and every way to help you and your mother." And when he had gone, the two ladies, sitting in the twilight before the glowing fire in the open hearth of the hotel sitting-room, had felt that something, some one, who had become necessary to them, had departed. Sir William Gouldesbrough travelled up to Victoria in a Pullman car. He sat in his arm-chair before a little table, on which was a pile of evening papers. During the first ten minutes he had glanced through all of them, and only one part of the news' columns claimed his attention--this was the portion of the paper devoted to the "Rathbone Mystery." He noticed that already the clamour and agitation was beginning to die down. The shrewd purveyors of news were beginning to realize that the mystery was not likely to be solved, and that the public appetite was satiated with it.