My own room was the best place for me till
the dinner bell rang. I waited there till it was
time to go down stairs.

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie—I had not
even seen her—all that day. The first meeting
with her, when I entered the drawing-room, was
a hard trial to her self-control and to mine. She,
too, had done her best to make our last evening
renew the golden bygone time—the time that
could never come again. She had put on the
dress which I used to admire more than any
other that she possessed—a dark blue silk,
trimmed quaintly and prettily with old-fashioned
lace; she came forward to meet me with her
former readiness; she gave me her hand with the
frank, innocent good will of happier days. The
cold fingers that trembled round mine; the pale
cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the
midst of them; the faint smile that struggled to
live on her lips and died away from them while I
looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself
her outward composure was maintained. My
heart could take her no closer to me, or I should
have loved her then as I had never loved her yet.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He
was in high good humour, and he led the
conversation with unflagging spirit. Miss Halcombe
seconded him resolutely; and I did all I could
to follow her example. The kind blue eyes whose
slightest changes of expression I had learnt to
interpret so well, looked at me appealingly when
we first sat down to table. Help my sister—
the sweet anxious face seemed to say—help my
sister, and you will help me.

We got through the dinner, to all outward
appearance at least, happily enough. When the
ladies had risen from table, and when Mr.
Gilmore and I were left alone in the dining-room,
a new interest presented itself to occupy our
attention, and to give me an opportunity of
quieting myself by a few minutes of needful and
welcome silence. The servant who had been
despatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs.
Clements, returned with his report, and was
shown into the dining-room immediately.

"Well," said Mr. Gilmore, "what have you
found out?"

"I have found out, sir," answered the man,
"that both the women took tickets, at our station
here, for Carlisle."

"You went to Carlisle, of course, when you
heard that?"

"I did, sir; but I am sorry to say I could find
no further trace of them."

"You inquired at the railway?"

"Yes, sir."

"And at the different inns?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you left the statement I wrote for you,
at the police station?"

"I did, sir."

"Well, my friend, you have done all you could,
and I have done all I could; and there the matter
must rest till further notice. We have played
our trump cards, Mr. Hartright," continued the
old gentleman, when the servant had withdrawn.
"For the present, at least, the women have
outmanoeuvred us; and our only resource, now, is
to wait till Sir Percival Glyde comes here on
Monday next. Won't you fill your glass again?
Good bottle of port, that—sound, substantial, old
wine. I have got better in my own cellar,
though."

We returned to the drawing-room—the room
in which the happiest evenings of my life had
been passed; the room which, after this last
night, I was never to see again. Its aspect was
altered since the days had shortened and the
weather had grown cold. The glass doors on
the terrace side were closed, and hidden by thick
curtains. Instead of the soft twilight obscurity,
in which we used to sit, the bright radiant glow
of lamplight now dazzled my eyes. All was
changed—in-doors and out, all was changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down
together at the card-table; Mrs. Vesey took her
customary chair. There was no restraint on the
disposal of their evening; and I felt the restraint
on the disposal of mine all the more painfully
from observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering
near the music stand. The time had been when
I might have joined her there. I waited
irresolutely—I knew neither where to go nor what
to do next. She cast one quick glance at me,
took a piece of music suddenly from the stand,
and came towards me of her own accord.

"Shall I play some of those little melodies of
Mozart's, which you used to like so much?" she
asked, opening the music nervously, and looking
down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her, she hastened to the
piano. The chair near it, which I had always
been accustomed to occupy, stood empty. She
struck a few chords—then glanced round at me
—then looked back again at her music.

"Won't you take your old place?" she said,
speaking very abruptly, and in very low tones.

"I may take it on the last night," I answered.

She did not reply: she kept her attention
riveted on the music—music which she knew by
memory, which she had played over and over
again, in former times, without the book. I only
knew that she had heard me, I only knew that she
was aware of my being close to her, by seeing
the red spot on the cheek that was nearest to
me, fade out, and the face grow pale all over.

"I am very sorry you are going," she said, her
voice almost sinking to a whisper; her eyes
looking more and more intently at the music; her
fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a
strange feverish energy which I had never noticed
in her before.

"I shall remember those kind words, Miss
Fairlie, long after to-morrow has come and
gone."

The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she
turned it farther away from me.

"Don't speak of to-morrow," she said. "Let
the music speak to us of to-night, in a happier
language than ours."

Her lips trembled—a faint sigh fluttered from
them, which she tried vainly to suppress. Her
fingers wavered on the piano; she struck a false
note; confused herself in trying to set it right;