“I have good reason to know how hard suspense is to bear,” said Macneillie. “And yet it’s not the worst, for there’s always a large mixture of hope in it. Come let us write out your telegram to the Herefords, it will need careful wording.” The next day was Sunday, but the telegraph office was open for two hours in the morning, and upon the stroke of eight Ralph stood at the door with his message to Ireland. He returned again between half past nine and ten and waited drearily in the office for the reply. But the deep bell of the cathedral boomed out the hour and still no answer came. “Open again between five and six, sir,” said the official, showing him to the door. And Ralph, miserably depressed, made his way to the cathedral. Here for a time he found comfort; but during the psalms the verger ushered a late-comer into the stall exactly facing him. He saw at a glance that it was Sir Matthew, and after that there was no more peace for him, but a dire struggle with his angry heart. After service was over, Sir Matthew joined him in the Close, greeting him just as if nothing had happened. “Did you telegraph to the Herefords?” he asked. “Yes, but as yet there is no reply,” said Ralph. “And I have not heard back from Dresden. We shall both hear this afternoon. Come and dine with me at eight o’clock and you shall hear the result.” “Thank you,” said Ralph. “But we leave for Nottingham by the eight ten.” “Come to lunch now then.” But to sit down and eat with the man who had wrought such havoc in his life and had driven Evereld to take such a desperate step was more than Ralph could endure. He excused himself, promising, however, to come round at six o’clock to the hotel and report any news he might receive from Ireland. His face when he arrived was not reassuring; he looked pale and miserable. “What news?” said Sir Matthew eagerly. “None,” said Ralph, handing the telegram to his godfather. The words struck a chill to Sir Matthew’s heart. _“Know nothing about her at all. Imagined she was in Switzerland still with her guardian.”_ “I have had a similar one from Dresden,” he replied. “She is not there and wrote last nearly a month ago.” “Is there any clue whatever in the letter she left behind for you?” suggested Ralph, with a strong desire to see it. Sir Matthew took from his breast-pocket a methodically arranged packet, and drew out Evereld’s note. “I can find no clue in it,” he said, “perhaps you may be able to do so.” Ralph eagerly read the letter. There was not the slightest hint as to the direction Evereld had taken, but something in the quiet assurance, the guarded, dignified tone of the short note brought him comfort. It revealed a side of his old play-fellow’s character which had hitherto lain dormant. “Well,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “You look relieved. What do you make of it? Where do you think she has gone?”