That evening they paid the bill—to the honour of the “Dragon,” it was a very small one—and reached the station in a fly. The same train that had taken Aymer to London took them also. They stayed that night at an hotel, and next afternoon travelled down to the little station nearest to World’s End. Another fly took them to the outskirts of Bury Wick village; and from thence they walked to The Place. Violet’s heart sank; it was dark, not a light in the window, not a sign of life; the doors were fast. They broke a pane of glass, and Fulk opened the window, got in, and unbolted one of the back doors. Fulk had taken the precaution to bring with him a few provisions, and had also bought the local paper—_The Barnham Chronicle_—and stuffed it in with the ham in the basket, for he was anxious to read about his cousin Lady Agnes’ marriage. Violet made a fire, and got some tea: she had provided that. Where was Aymer? A strange night that at The Place. Fulk felt safer now he was out of the city: but Violet had too vivid a memory of the past. In the very house where so many happy hours had been passed she was alone with a perfect stranger, or one who was a stranger but a little while before. And Aymer? “Where could Aymer be?” was the question she constantly asked. Fulk said, “Aymer was doubtless at Belthrop, trying to find her.” “But Hannah Bond knows I started for Stirmingham,” objected Violet. “If Aymer should see her, and go back to Stirmingham. I must write to her—or will you?” “I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till to-morrow night. Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.” “Hannah must come and live here with me,” said Violet, musingly. “I think I shall stay at The Place till—till—where is your newspaper?” “I—I—burnt it,” said Fulk. “I burnt it helping you to light the fire.” It was the truth, yet it was a lie. He had burnt it, that Violet might not see something in it. Aymer was not at Belthrop. Aymer’s name was in the paper. “How shall I amuse you?” said Violet. “This is my home; I must amuse you. I will play to you one of the airs that Aymer likes. Poor Aymer!” she added, half to herself. The gentle, melancholy music of Mendelssohn filled the room from the long unused piano. “Poor Aymer!” repeated Fulk to himself. Poor Aymer, indeed! Chapter Thirteen.