“Dear me,” said Mr. Abdy, arresting his hand in a downward stroke of his beard. “Who would have thought it? He seemed such a gentlemanly fellow. And I asked him to lunch!” “I ’ll write and put the dear Bishop on his guard,” said Mr. Winstanley, virtuously. Meanwhile, Joyce went away full of wonder and pity. It was an amazing story. Poor Yvonne! He could not believe that she had returned to the scamp of a first husband. The thought was repulsive. At any rate communication between Everard and Yvonne seemed to have been cut off. He was not very sorry for Everard. “A little trouble will do him good,” he muttered to himself. And he found a certain grim amusement in the contemplation of the chastened Bishop, his cousin. But he felt a great concern for poor fragile little Yvonne cast adrift again upon the world. “I will find out what has become of her, at any rate,” he said, digging his stick into the road. The natural course was to write to Miss Geraldine Vicary, whose address he fortunately remembered. If she had lost count of Yvonne, he would set to work to find her some other way. He felt as eager now to recover Yvonne’s friendship as he had been apathetic before. To lose no time, while waiting for the early return excursion train, he went into a post-office and wrote and despatched his letter. The following morning he resumed his newly schemed out life of literary work. Three days passed and no reply came from Miss Vicary. On the fourth morning he received a black-edged envelope bearing the Swansea postmark. He opened it and read:-- Dear Sir,--Your letter to Miss Geraldine Vicary was, according to instructions, forwarded to me. I regret to inform you that my poor sister died three weeks ago, of diphtheria. She caught the disease whilst nursing the lady concerning whom, I believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had been living with her for the past two years. Shortly after my poor sister’s death, Madame Latour was removed to St. Mary’s Hospital, where, as far as I know, she still lies very ill. Trusting this sad information may be of service to you, I am yours faithfully, Henrietta Dasent. Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted his breakfast, and rushed out into the street, with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and uncared for, dying in a London hospital--it was incredible. The apparent heartlessness of the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of all interest in her dead sister’s dying friend, made his blood boil. A London hospital--an open common ward, with medical students chattering round--it was a cruel place for the sweet delicate woman he remembered as Yvonne. Where were all her friends? In the dismay, excitement, and indignation of the moment, he forgot his poverty, and jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw. “St. Mary’s Hospital, quick!” And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life and death, went at a breakneck pace. CHAPTER XVI--LA CIGALE