“‘I made every inquiry, but could learn no more at Weirdwaste. I went back to Northumberland—to Enderby—and remained until after the funeral of my dear wife. Then I went down to Brighton to make inquiries there. I found the house where you had lodged—to which all my letters had been directed—but the landlady could tell me nothing more than that the young lady had been missed one day, and that at the end of the same week the two old ladies had given up their apartments and had gone to London. And that, subsequently, she had heard a report that the young lady had gone off to Scotland, with “the Italian,” to be married; but she did not know the truth of the matter.’ “‘I do not know how the report could have got out, except through my teachers.’ “‘Of course it was through them. When I could hear no more I went up to London to transact some business with my banker. I did not like to ask any direct questions of him concerning you; nor did I have any strong hope of hearing news of you in that quarter. Nevertheless, when our accounts had been overhauled, I did venture to remark: “‘“My daughter has not drawn on you of late, I perceive.” “‘“Not for a year,” he said; “and that reminds me,” he continued, “that I had a letter from her highness, last summer, inquiring your lordship’s address—I believe it was from Geneva. I cannot lay my hands on it at this time, but—yes, I am sure it was from Geneva.” “‘How glad I am that I wrote that letter! The banker’s prompt reply was the first clew I got to your whereabouts, as the banker’s news was the first clew you got to mine.’ “‘Yes, my dear. I did not ask a question, burning as I was to hear more of you. How could I ask that comparative stranger for information respecting my daughter, with whose movements I should have been perfectly familiar? I did not even know why he called you “her highness.” I left England that same afternoon, and came as fast as steam could bring me to Geneva. Here I am! But I do not even know the name of your husband.’ “Again I dropped my head upon my breast. I had so much to tell him, besides the name of my husband. But he was waiting patiently for my reply. I gave it.” CHAPTER XXXV A SHOCK “‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’ “He stared at me in surprise, in distress. “‘Prince Luigi Saviola!’ he echoed, without withdrawing his fixed gaze from my face. “‘Yes, dear father,’ I answered, wondering at the emotion, or rather at the panic, into which my words had thrown him. “‘Oh, my poor child! Oh, my dear child! And here you have been controlling and concealing your own great sorrow to listen to me and to sympathize with my lighter ones. Oh, my poor Elfrida! My poor, poor girl!’ he breathed at last, with a voice full of distress and compassion that I felt sure he must have heard of Saviola’s Parisian marriage, and was grieving over it more than I was for myself. I felt that I must try to comfort him.