Not until eleven o'clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square, and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty's representatives at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens. On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the drawing-room. "No, sir. Madame is out, sir." "Out! When did she go out?" "About an hour after you had left, sir," replied the man. "She has gone into the country, I believe." "Into the country? What makes you think so?" "Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her," he answered. "Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself three days ago." "Did she say where she was going?" I inquired breathlessly. "No, sir. She left no message with anyone." Entering the drawing-room with my overcoat still on, I noticed, lying upon her little rosewood escritoire, a note addressed to me. Eagerly I took it up, tore it open, and read its contents. There were only a few hurriedly-scrawled words--a brief and formal farewell. "You cannot trust me," she wrote, "therefore we are best apart. Do not attempt to follow me, for you cannot find me. Do not think ill of me, for even if I have wronged and deceived you, I have, nevertheless, been your friend." It commenced formally, without any endearing term, and concluded abruptly with the two words, "Your Wife." For a few moments I stood with it in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. Then it occurred to me that in that very escritoire she kept all her correspondence, and it was more than probable that I might learn the truth from some of the letters therein contained. I endeavoured to open it, but it was, as usual, locked. She had taken the key. In my sudden excitement I called to Juckes to bring a hammer, and with a few sharp blows broke open the sloping, leather-covered top, finding a number of letters addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. One, larger than the rest, crumpled, dirty and worn, as if it had reposed in someone's pocket for a long period, I took out, and eagerly opened beneath the soft-shaded lamp. "My God!" I cried aloud, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, when next instant I realised the terrible truth. "My God! I had never suspected this!" CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A TERRIBLE TRUTH. Ella's cold, formal adieu stunned me. I stood open-mouthed, petrified. We had parted on the best of terms, she kissing me affectionately, and with wifely solicitude bidding me hasten back; yet in my absence she had departed, evidently carrying out some pre-arranged plan. Her maid, Roberts, had noticed her packing her trunks three days before, therefore it was certain that she meant to desert me as soon as opportunity offered. Unaccountable and astounding as was her sudden flight, the discovery I had made among the papers in her escritoire was even more amazing. It held me stupefied and aghast.