A new year was opening on the just and the unjust—the fortunate and the unfortunate. Lady Gethin had arrived in town after a prolonged Christmas visit to some attentive relatives in one of the midland counties.

She was always pleased to be at home; she liked to exercise a friendly hospitality, and she was by no means afraid of a lonely evening, of which she never had too many.

It was the day after her return. Night had closed in; her dainty dinner was over, and she was established in her favorite chair beside a bright wood and coal fire in the smaller and cosier of her two drawing-rooms, which was lighted only by the ruddy glow of the fire and a shaded reading-lamp, by which she was perusing a new novel. She had laid down the book and was thinking, with an unusually softened expression on her strong face, of her favorite, Hugh Glynn. She had been intensely anxious about him during his severe illness. She had constantly visited his sick-room, and satisfied herself that nurses and servants were doing their duty. When his life was despaired of, she was grimly still, silent, and enduring, but she knew that all the woman in her somewhat masculine nature had gone out, in maternal affection, to her husband's nephew.

When he was slowly struggling back to life and strength she accompanied him to a south coast bathing-place, and gave him the great benefit of her companionship, for she knew how to be sympathetically silent, as well as congenially talkative. In this prolonged tÊte-À-tÊte Glynn grew sincerely and gratefully attached to the outspoken free-thinking old woman, whose frank kindness was never oppressive, and whose uncompromising sincerity might convince the hardest sceptic of its reality.

Attachment brought confidence, and before they parted Hugh Glynn had told her the strange history of his sudden love for Elsie Lambert, of the hold it had taken of him in spite of reason, prudence, worldly wisdom—every motive that ought to guide a man of his maturity and experience. He even confessed to the weakness of regretting he had rejected Lambert's proposal of marriage with his daughter.

In the story of Elsie's disappearance, Lady Gethin was profoundly interested, though, to Glynn's disappointment and indignation, she did not hesitate to declare her belief that the young lady eloped voluntarily, and had probably since informed her father of her whereabouts—a fact which he might think it wiser not to divulge. She further declared that although she did not think the worse of Glynn for his infatuation, she thought he had had a great escape, and believed he would come to think so himself when he had recovered his health and resumed the ordinary routine of his life.

Reviewing these conversations Lady Gethin sat forgetful of her book, when the object of her thoughts was announced.

"Why didn't you come to dinner?" she exclaimed, holding out her hand.

"Because I have been dining earlier than usual at the house of a cousin of mine in the suburbs, where I have been officiating as god-father to his first-born son."

"A very patriarchal proceeding. Who is this cousin—do I not know him?"

"I think not; he is a cousin on my mother's side, and has a cure of souls at Clapham."

"Well, Hugh, and how are you? You look better and stronger."

"I am! I have turned the corner, and am beginning to pull mechanically against the collar once more."

Lady Gethin looked earnestly at him. He seemed taller than ever—gaunt and bony. His dark face was very colorless, his eyes sunken; yet his attitude and air had less of lassitude than when they had parted last.

"You have been across the Channel?"

"Yes, I ran over to Paris for a little change, just before Christmas. Paris draws me like a magnet."

"A magnetism you ought to resist. How is the beautiful city?"

"Beautiful as ever; but there is mischief in the air. However, I am no prophet. I wandered about the old scenes like a troubled ghost, and I saw Lambert."

"Indeed! I wish, Hugh, you would break away from all the painful associations with that man, you can do him no good."

"True; but I have the most profound pity for him, all the more that he seems by no means glad to see me. I fancy his terrible misfortune has affected his brain. He is sullen, and averse to speak of anything that leads up to the subject of his lost daughter, and yet he looks in surprisingly good health."

"He has not had a brain fever!" said Lady Gethin, significantly. "I suppose no trace whatever has been discovered?"

"Not the faintest. I succeeded in obtaining an interview with M. Claude, who reluctantly admitted that the French police have rarely been so baffled."

"It is a most extraordinary case," said Lady Gethin, and then hastened to change the subject. "I have had rather a pleasant time of it at the Kingsfords'. I went down the day before Christmas and only returned yesterday. The Deerings put up there for two nights on their way to Lord Arthur Saville's. Lady Frances was looking a little more alive; and really Deering can be very agreeable."

"He is, I suspect, a tremendously white-washed sepulchre."

"I cannot understand your suspicions of Deering," returned Lady Gethin; "as to his being mixed up with the Lambert affair, it is mere nonsense. What on earth could he have to do with such a man as you describe Lambert? He might have met him in a train, or on a steamboat, or a race-course, but it is impossible he could have known much of him."

"He did, however, I am certain," said Glynn, slowly and thoughtfully; "and you would agree with me had you seen them together. There was deadly enmity as well as acquaintanceship between them."

"Well, perhaps so," she returned. "Will you have a cup of coffee, Hugh? It will rouse you, you look sleepy and distrait."

"Thank you; a cup of your coffee will do me good."

Lady Gethin rang and ordered some to be brought, talking cheerfully on a variety of topics. But Glynn's attention wandered while he sipped the refreshing beverage, and as he put down his cup Lady Gethin exclaimed, "I don't think you have heard a word I have been saying!"

"Yes," he exclaimed, starting from his thoughts, "I have heard, but, I confess, not taken in the sense of what you have been saying. I am, perhaps foolishly, excited by an incident which occurred to-day, and as you are tolerably acquainted with all my weakness you may as well hear this instance too. I was, as I told you, at Clapham to-day; after the christening of my little godson we returned to luncheon at Heathcote's—at my cousin's house, and when the other guests had left he asked me to smoke a cigar with him in the garden. As we talked and walked up and down beside a railing and hedge of holly, which separates Heathcote's garden from the next, I heard some one speaking at the other side, and as I listened I could have sworn that the voice was Elsie Lambert's. It was soft and low, yet wonderfully distinct; then a highly-pitched woman's voice declared in French that she feared some task would be difficult. Again the voice that made my heart stand still said, 'Difficult, but not insurmountable; kindness and steadiness will overcome so much; I would trust them too——' Then I ceased to catch the words, though the well-known tones came to me again, as the speakers evidently turned away. Great heavens! I hear it still, it was Elsie's voice! I lost my head for a moment; I rushed to the railing, and thrusting my arms between them, tried to tear away some of the branches to look through. My cousin thought I had lost my senses, and begged for an explanation. I told him I felt certain that a lady I had been seeking in every direction was at the other side of the hedge. He said the adjoining grounds belonged to a ladies' school, and I asked him to accompany me to the house, and back me up in my inquiries, as he was known to the owner and the teachers. At last he consented. The parleying occupied some time, then we had to walk round by a road which ran the length of the two gardens, to turn again on reaching the common, and go a little way back to the gates of Montpellier House; altogether twenty minutes must have elapsed from the time I first heard the voice before I rang the bell at Mrs. Storrer's. As we approached a cab was driving away. On asking for the head of the establishment, we were informed that no one was at home but the head governess and the French teacher. Heathcote sent up his card, and begged to be allowed to speak to one or both of the ladies."

"Well," ejaculated Lady Gethin, "what did you find?"

"After a little delay we were ushered up stairs and were received by a lady, who recognized Heathcote. He left me to explain myself, which I did as well as I could, though it was not easy."

"'You heard a voice you recognized speaking in our grounds,' repeated the lady; 'it must have been either Mademoiselle Laroche, or Mademoiselle Moppert. They were in the grounds just now.'

"'May I see these ladies?'

"'Mademoiselle Moppert,—yes; but Mademoiselle Laroche has just driven away. Mademoiselle Moppert has come to replace her as French governess.' I confess I lost hope as she spoke, still I begged for an interview with the incoming teacher, and a servant was sent to request her presence. A glance at her was enough. She was a short, stout, elderly young lady, with piercing black eyes and distinct moustaches. I had to muster my best French and apologize elaborately. Then I begged for some information touching Mademoiselle Laroche. Was she French? 'Yes, undoubtedly,—from Picardy.' 'Was she tall, or short? slight, or stout?' 'She was,' the French governess said, 'about her height, and a little, yes, a very little thinner.' The Englishwoman added that she did not look in good health. 'Did she sing?' I asked. No, she had never sang or played while in Mrs. Storrer's establishment. How long had she been there? About seven months. She had been engaged in May last, but did not come till the middle of June. Where had she gone? It was understood she had made an engagement to go to India, but she was extremely reserved. No one knew much about her except Mrs. Storrer, who was spending the holidays with a friend at Cheltenham. This was all I could extract. Heathcote was desperately put out by my eccentric proceedings. I was obliged to return with him and to give some explanation of my conduct. Then I went to the cab-stand, and found out the number of the cab; and to the police-station, and commissioned a constable to ascertain where the cab had taken Mademoiselle Laroche."

"I think your time and trouble have been thrown away," said Lady Gethin. "A fancied resemblance to Miss Lambert's voice was but shallow ground to build any hopes upon."

"It was not fancied," said Glynn, leaning back and looking straight before him with fixed, dreamy eyes. "The tones struck my ear, my heart, with instantaneous recognition. I cannot believe that any two people could speak so much alike. I must say the description doesn't tally, nor is it possible to account for her being in a ladies' school in England; still, that voice!"

"My dear Hugh, your imagination is so saturated with the tragic ideas you associate with that unhappy girl's flight—I mean her disappearance," for Glynn turned sharply towards her, "that you can hardly trust your own impressions. I wish you would put the affair out of your head. You were quite right to help the poor father as much as you could; but now—let this chapter of your life be closed, and begin afresh."

"Excellent advice, but useless to me. I can not forget!"

"Is it possible that on so short an acquaintance you were so severely hit?"

"Ay, in the first twenty-four hours of our acquaintance she touched my heart as no other woman ever did, and every subsequent interview added to her power. There was a sweet gravity about her which would be as charming in her white-haired age as in her fair youth! And yet so miserably faithless is this human nature of ours, there are moments when doubt plunges its jagged darts into me;—and for a hideous moment I think it possible she may have gone willingly with some unknown lover, but at any suggestion of the kind from another the doubt vanishes. It only gathers at rare intervals when I brood alone and grow morbid. In my saner moments I never doubt her; but the horror of the thing!—nothing diminishes that!"

He started up and began to pace the room. The anguish of his voice touched Lady Gethin, in spite of her conviction that he was weakly credulous.

"It is a terrible business altogether. What do you think of doing now?"

"I shall go down by an early train to Cheltenham to-morrow and see this Mrs. Storrer. My future movements will depend on what I gather from her."

"Shall you write to the father?"

"Not unless I have something definite to report. It would be cruel to rouse him out of his apathy by a gleam of false hope."

"You are a most unlucky fellow, Hugh; your life is quite spoilt by this entanglement."

"It is my fate," said Glynn. He rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and his head on his hand.

"You will return to-morrow night, I suppose?" said Lady Gethin.

"Most probably. I don't fancy I shall get any intelligence that will send me further afield."

"You must come and tell me your news as soon as possible."

"Of course I shall, gladly."

"Then dine with me the day after to-morrow. I shall not ask any one to break our solitude À deux."

"Thank you. It is an infinite comfort to talk to you, though I know very well you are sceptical on some points where I cling to belief."

After some more conversation they parted, and Glynn, disturbed, but scarcely hopeful, went home to snatch what repose he could before his early start next day.

While Glynn was making his way to Mrs. Storrer's temporary abode through muddy streets and a chilling shower of sleet, Deering sat over a glowing fire in the particular apartment occupied by him in his town house. He was in London for a few days on his way to visit a sporting friend in Leicestershire, and was utilizing the time by an interview with his solicitor, who had already risen to take leave, when Deering's valet entered and handed a card to his master, who, glancing at it with a frown, said:

"Ask him to sit down; I will see him presently," and he continued the conversation with his legal adviser, though his eyes wandered more than once to the card which lay beside him.

As soon as he was alone, Deering rang and desired that the gentleman who was waiting should be shown up. In another moment the door closed on Vincent, who was magnificent in a grand overcoat, with a sable collar and cuffs, and a pair of sealskin gloves. His finery, however, was no stay to his self-esteem, for his light-colored, hatchety face had an uneasy, crestfallen expression.

"Well," said Deering, without further salutation, "have you any news? There—sit down."

"Yes, I have news; not very satisfactory news," said Vincent in his nasal, drawling tones. "He's off!"

"Lambert! And to America?" cried Deering.

The other nodded. "I tracked him myself, saw him on board the New York steamer, and saw her steam away down the Mersey."

"Then he sailed from Liverpool? What was the meaning of that?"

"Can't tell. I think you are wrong in your conjectures. I don't think he knows any more about his daughter than we do."

"His start for America proves nothing."

"Perhaps not; but for over seven months he has been watched night and day, as you know, and not a trace of any communication with any one except business men and that woman who brought up the girl has been found."

"We don't know what his communication with her may have masked?"

"Well, not more than three letters have passed between them in all this time; nor has he remitted money in any direction, or made any expeditions beyond his daily round. He has been pretty steady in his attendance at the Bourse, and done well in a quiet way, but his life has been visible and regular. He has bothered M. Claude periodically, and he looks a good deal changed; but, no! if he knew his daughter's whereabouts he never could keep from giving some sign. He is a fiery, impulsive, open-mouthed fellow, who would be too proud of doing you to keep silent about it. If he were not within reach of the policeman he'd give me my quietus."

"No doubt," said Deering, with calm, complete acquiescence. "What is the name of the woman in Wales?"

"Mrs. Kellett."

"I thought we might have got something out of her."

"Well, I did not," returned Vincent. "Lambert was so ready to apply to her. Moreover, the man that went down to the place found she had been ill in bed at the very time Miss Lambert disappeared."

There was a pause. "It is the strangest case, I should think, that French detective ever came across," resumed Deering. "I suppose he never was baffled before. Who has any interest in taking her away? Have you any theory?"

"Not much of one. I am sometimes inclined to think she went off with Glynn. He was, I suspect, far gone about her."

"No," said Deering, thoughtfully. "No; he was with me when Lambert broke in like a madman, and no one could have aped the horror and astonishment he betrayed. No, he doesn't know anything,—or didn't a few weeks ago; but I wish to heaven he hadn't got over that fever. Should we ever find the girl we shall have to reckon with him, and he is a formidable antagonist."

"He can be dealt with, I suppose."

Deering did not heed him; he moved uneasily in his chair. His brow contracted with a look of fierce resolution. "Have you telegraphed to the New York police?"

"I waited to see you first."

"You had better do so. They have a description of Lambert, I suppose?"

"I rather think not."

"Send it then."

"What, by wire?"

"Yes;—but wait,—do it through the French detective. I don't want to appear in the matter. They were rather taken with the notion that Lambert himself had made away with his daughter?"

"At first, yes; but the last time I saw M. Claude he seemed to have quite given up the idea."

"You never know what he thinks. Now, what has your journey cost you?"

"I don't care to take any money at present; I will write when——"

"No," interrupted Deering, imperiously, "no letters—I will neither write nor receive them—a telegram, if absolutely necessary. If you have anything to tell, come and tell it, you can always find my address at the Club, and never give up the search. Here are twenty sovereigns,—I have no more gold about me, and I'll not give you notes,—take them, I insist. It suits me better to pay when I have the opportunity. Remember—the sum originally promised if you can find her dead, double if you find her alive. Now you may go—stop—wait till the servant comes." Vincent paused, and as the door opened, Deering said distinctly in courteous tones, "I am very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to call—I am interested in your search—and wish you all success. Good-morning."

Lady Gethin was restless and expectant until the hour arrived at which Glynn was due. She was profoundly interested in the mysterious disappearance of the girl who had made so deep an impression on her favorite nephew. She would like her to be discovered safe and well; but above all things, married to some worthy person, and so secure from doing or receiving harm. Then she should like to see her, perhaps assist at her reconciliation with her father. Anyhow it was a great mercy that she was well out of Hugh's way, for really the folly and weakness of men were such, etc., etc.

Glynn was a few minutes late, but was cordially welcomed.

"I see you have found nothing," exclaimed Lady Gethin, as soon as they were alone.

"It was a wild-goose chase," he replied with a weary look.

"You must tell me all about it after dinner. You seem in want of a glass of wine,—you shall have some of my best Burgundy, it is a splendid tonic."

The friendly hostess was greatly distressed at her guest's want of appetite; she pressed, him to eat, and prescribed various nostrums, which he rejected. As soon as the servants had left the room he brightened a little, and drawing his chair nearer hers, began his story in compliance with her reiterated entreaty, "Come, tell me everything."

He had, he said, found the head of the Clapham establishment easy enough; she was a composed, ceremonious, typical school-mistress; civil, but guarded. She listened attentively to his story, and declared her willingness to tell all she knew about the young French lady who had just quitted her service. She had been recommended by some English friends at Dinan; and her chief attraction was the fact of her being a Protestant. Hitherto Mrs. Storrer feared the introduction of a foreigner into her select and sacred household, but had no reason to regret the entrance of Mademoiselle Laroche within its precincts. It was early in May last that negotiations between herself and the French teacher began; but she did not enter upon her duties till the 15th of June.

"That," said Glynn, interrupting himself, "was the day of the ball,—the day before her disappearance."

Mrs. Storrer described Mademoiselle Laroche as about middle height, inclined to be stout, with hair and eyes between dark and fair; not particularly graceful; and as to age,—well, it was hard to say—she might be twenty-one,—she might be twenty-five,—appearances are deceptive. As to her voice—yes, it was pleasant, unusually soft for a French woman; but nothing remarkable! If he wished for Mademoiselle Laroche's address, Mrs. Storrer would be happy to furnish it, though that would not be of much avail, as the family to whom she had gone were to start to-morrow or next day for India. She had not her address-book with her, but would send a note to the governess to forward it to Mr. Glynn.

"Finally, I showed her Miss Lambert's photograph, which I always carry about with me. She looked at it with a slow smile, and then turning it said: 'No, this is not Mademoiselle Laroche, this is a charming young lady.' Her quiet unconsciousness of any resemblance convinced me even more than her words that she could not know Elsie."

"Indeed," added Glynn, "a quiet young ladies' boarding-school seems the very last place where one could expect to find a girl so strangely and tragically lost. Yet even now, as I recall the voice I heard the day before yesterday, I cannot believe that I was mistaken! Is it not possible that a visitor might have entered and walked round the garden with the other two? unknown to the head governess."

"Of course it is possible, but very improbable. If Miss Lambert was carried away against her own will (which I do not believe), her captors would not let her go visiting; and if she aided in concealing herself, why, she would not seek acquaintances."

"True, and unanswerable. Still, when I think of the voice I heard little more than forty-eight hours ago, I cannot resist the conviction that if I could have burst through that accursed hedge I should have clasped Elsie—the real Elsie—in my arms."

"Good heavens, Hugh! would you have clasped her in your arms?"

"I would! if she had not repelled me! I tell you I would give life itself,—to find—the Elsie Lambert I believed in."

"Yes, but can you hope to do so? Must you not admit that the balance of evidence is against such a find?" cried Lady Gethin, distressed, yet deeply interested.

"There are beliefs and instincts," returned Glynn, "the deepest—the strangest, respecting which one cannot reason! Shall we ever understand the 'wherefore' that is beyond and above our material sense?"

"Never," said Lady Gethin, sharply. "There is a something we cannot define or fathom that stirs us as though a second self was being evolved from the coarser everyday serviceable ego; but it will always escape our ken! Nor will it do to trust these bewildering, shadowy promptings; we must act in the living present by the light of that most uncommon faculty, common sense. These dreamy tendencies are not like you! This unlucky business has upset your mental balance, Hugh. You have done your best to find this poor girl; she has no claim whatever upon you. You must try to put her out of your head, and take up your life again."

"I suppose I must," he returned thoughtfully; "but it will be hard. Curiously enough I found a letter awaiting me when I returned, from Lambert, dated Liverpool, informing me he was to sail next day for New York, where he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter. He must have passed through London. I am surprised he did not call on me. I did not think he would have avoided me."

"It looks odd," said Lady Gethin. "By the way, let me see the daughter's photograph; I did not know you carried it about, or I should have asked for it before."

Glynn took out the little case in which the picture was carefully enclosed, and gave it to her. Lady Gethin looked long and thoughtfully at it.

"A sweet face," she said, "somewhat sad; but a fine expression; it seems somehow familiar to me. Photographs are seldom true representations, and she may be very unlike the idea this suggests; but I wish I could remember who it is she reminds of."

"It has not been fortunate for Elsie that her face suggests memories," said Glynn. "I have a strong conviction that if she had not attracted Deering's attention at those Auteuil races she would be still safe under her father's care."

"You mean to say you think that a man of Deering's position, character, standing, would give himself up to such scoundrelism. Hugh! it is too absurd!"

"I know it is; I always dismiss the thought, and then it gathers again like a mist over the morass of doubt in which I am plunged. However, if he is responsible for her disappearance he certainly does not know where she is now; but he is seeking for her. Claude, the French detective, let out as much the last time I saw him."

"Depend upon it the father knows she is in America."

"You think so? I doubt it."

"I wonder he is not more confidential with you. Does he know you were in love with her?"

"No, certainly not!"

"The whole affair is incomprehensible!—let me look at that photograph again! Who is it she reminds me of?"

Finding no reply in the stores of her memory, Lady Gethin shut up the case and restored it to Glynn, and to change the subject began to urge him to resume his former social habits and mix with his kind. "It will not render your chances of finding your lost love any the worse, perhaps better; for if you ever get a clue to her, I suspect it will be by accident. No one was ever really lost in this small world of ours unless, indeed, death folds its pall over the missing one."

"Yes, I shall probably find her; but how? and where?" said Glynn, with a sound of pain in his voice. "At any rate I shall follow your advice! I will try to shake off this despairing apathy; and, though I cannot turn phrases prettily, believe me I am warmly grateful for your sympathy, your forbearance; indeed, I do not know what I should do without it."