When Lord Level went to Marshdale on the visit that bore so suspicious an aspect to his wife, he had remained there only one night, returning to London the following day. This week he had been down again, and stayed rather longer--two days, in fact. Blanche, as I chanced to know, was rebelling over it. Secretly rebelling, for she had not brought herself to accuse him openly. "News?" I repeated. "Of Tom Heriot." Should I tell Lord Level? Perhaps there was no help for it. When he had asked me before I had known nothing positively; now I knew only too much. "Why I should have it, I know not; but a conviction lies upon me that he has found his way back to London," he continued. "Charles, you look conscious. Do you know anything?" "You are right. He is here, and I have seen him." "Good heavens!" exclaimed Lord Level, throwing himself back in his chair. "Has he really been mad enough to come back to London?" Drawing my own chair nearer to him, I bent forward, and in low tones gave him briefly the history. I had seen Tom on the Monday and Tuesday nights, as already related to the reader. On the Thursday night I was again at the trysting-place, but Tom did not meet me. The previous night, Friday, I had gone again, and again Tom did not appear. "Is he taken, think you?" cried Lord Level. "I don't know: and you see I dare not make any inquiries. But I think not. Had he been captured, it would be in the papers." "I am not so sure of that. What an awful thing! What suspense for us all! Can _nothing_ be done?" "Nothing," I answered, rising, for my time was up. "We can only wait, and watch, and be silent." "If it were not for the disgrace reflected upon us, and raking it up again to people's minds, I would say let him be re-taken! It would serve him right for his foolhardiness." "How is Blanche?" "Cross and snappish; unaccountably so: and showing her temper to me rather unbearably." I laughed--willing to treat the matter lightly. "She does not care that you should go travelling without her, I take it." Lord Level, who was passing out before me, turned and gazed into my face. "Yes," said he emphatically. "But a man may have matters to take up his attention, and his movements also, that he may deem it inexpedient to talk of to his wife." He spoke with a touch of haughtiness. "Very true," I murmured, as we shook hands and went out together, he walking away towards Gloucester Place, I jumping into the cab waiting to take me to the station. Mrs. Brightman was better; I knew that; and showing herself more self-controlled. But there was no certainty that the improvement would be lasting. In truth, the certainty lay rather the other way. Her mother's home was no home for Annabel; and I had formed the resolution to ask her to come to mine.