Averil was somewhat surprised when, two hours later, Frank Harland made his appearance. His father had a touch of the gout, he explained. He had come in his stead to offer his services. He listened attentively as Averil put him in possession of the few facts.

"I will go down to the club at once," he said starting up with a business-like air that seemed to promise efficient masculine aid. "Don't trouble more than you can help, Averil. I shall be sure to find out everything from some of the men. I expect the foolish fellow has got into difficulties, and is keeping himself dark."

Mrs. Willmot cheered up a little when Averil imparted the young lawyer's view of the case; her imagination ceased to dwell so exclusively on hospital wards and fractured limbs. She had horrified Maud and Lottie by mysterious hints of belated folks smuggled into dark entries. "How do I know he is not made away with by ruffians?" she had sobbed; and Maud, who had reached the limits of her endurance, and who was suffering secretly the deadly sickness of remorse, silenced her with impatient harshness.

"Mother you will drive me crazy," she said at last. "Why will you say such things? It is cruel to us!" And Mrs. Willmot, who was easily quelled by her eldest daughter, relapsed into weak tears.

It was Annette who came to Maud's relief at last. "Let her talk to me," she said, quietly. "The air will do you good; this room is so close. She can say what she likes to me, and it will not hurt—not as it hurts you. Oh, I know all about it! She must talk; it is her only relief;" and, to Maud's surprise, she placed herself beside the poor lady. "You will talk to me, will you not?" she said, taking her hand in her pretty, earnest way. "I will listen to you—oh, yes, I will listen! I think there is a difference in people—some are so silent in their grief. What is it you fear? Surely the good God will take care of your son! You have prayed to Him? No!"—as Mrs. Willmot shook her head—"then no wonder you are miserable! When one can not pray there is no help."

A swift pang of regret crossed Maud's mind as she heard these simple words. They had treated Annette badly; they had ignored her existence as far as possible, and this was the kindly return she was making them.

Maud felt as though she hated herself as she paced restlessly up and down the garden walks, straining her ears for the sound of Frank's wheels. "What have I ever done in my life?" she thought, bitterly. "Have I considered any one but myself? I deserve my punishment; I deserve all this suspense and misery!" But so wretched was her mood, that though her repentance was real, and there was nothing she would not have done to ease her mother's mind, she could find no words for Averil when she joined her.

"Dear Maud, I think this is worse for you than for any one," whispered Averil, affectionately, looking into the brilliant, strained eyes, that seemed as though they could not shed a tear. "I know how trying it has been; but Annette is managing your mother so nicely."

"Don't Averil; I can't talk," returned Maud, hoarsely, and she turned away. No, she could not talk. Averil meant kindly, but it was not for her to understand. "If anything happens to Rodney it will be my fault—mine," she murmured, as she resumed her restless walk.

It seemed hours before Frank returned. Averil met him in the hall, and took him into her own room.

"Well," she asked, breathlessly, as she leaned against a table, "have you found him, Frank?"

He shook his head. "He was not there. No one knows exactly where he is. Will you sit down?" bringing her a chair, and compelling her with gentle force to rest. "There is no need to stand for I have much to tell you."

"Ah! then you have found out all about it?" And Frank nodded.

"He is in money difficulties—I was sure of that from the first. I have seen Forbes, and he has told me all. That fellow Townley—he seems to be a precious cad—got him to put his name to a bill some months ago. It has been renewed. Well, I will spare you all that part. I need only tell you that Townley behaved like a mean hound about it. He knew all the time that he was sold up, and that they would come on Rodney."

"Was it for a large amount?"

"It was for three hundred and fifty pounds—a pretty sum for a young fellow to pay who is living on his mother! He made the poor boy believe that it was just a matter of form—that he would not be implicated in the least."

"Frank, I will pay it. It is sad to throw my father's money away, but we must clear Rodney. He has been duped by this man."

"Stop! There is more to tell. It is a very bad business altogether. They left the club together last evening—they had been dining with Forbes—and the vexation and terror, and the wine he had taken, had got into the poor fellow's head. He was in an awful rage when he left the club—they all say that—but Townley was only sneering and laughing at him. Forbes says he heard Rodney mutter that he would have his revenge, and, not quite liking the look of things, he lighted his cigar and followed them."

"Wait a moment, Frank;" and Averil caught at his arm a moment. She was white to her lips. Then, after a minute—"Now go on. I will try to bear it!" And Frank obeyed her.

"Forbes did not like to follow them too closely, or to act as a spy, but he could see they were quarreling. They had turned into a quieter street, as though to carry on their discussion without hinderance, and after a time they stood still under a lamp-post. Forbes was hesitating whether he should pass them or not, when he heard Rodney say, 'You have done for me, but I will be even with you;' and then he raised his hand and gave him a terrible blow, and the next moment he saw Townley fall."

Averil moved her lips, but no words came.

"Forbes rushed up to them and thrust Rodney away. 'You have killed him!' he said; and for the minute he thought he was speaking the truth. Townley had fallen and struck the back of his head against the curb; he was insensible, but not dead. As he knelt down and tried to support him in his arms a policeman hurried up to him. 'I saw it done, sir,' he said, excitedly, 'and I tried to nab the gentleman; but he was too quick for me. One of my mates is giving him chase. He is not dead, is he sir?' 'No; I can feel his heart beat,' returned Forbes. 'You must get me a cab, and I will take him round to his rooms—they are not far from here.' And then he went on to tell me how they took him home and sent for the doctor, and how the physician feared concussion of the brain. Forbes thinks he will not die. Don't look so white, Averil."

"Ah! I did not see you. Miss Seymour," as Maud's rigid face appeared in the window. Evidently she had heard all.

"Rodney—where is he?" she asked. But her voice was almost inaudible; and Frank went on addressing Averil.

"No one knows what has become of him. I have inquired at Scotland Yard, but it appears he eluded the man who chased him. He is in hiding somewhere. Don't you see, Averil, he is suffering a double fear. Townley had told him the Jews would be down on him, and Forbes' statement that he had killed Townley made him feel himself a murderer. He dare not come home, for fear of being arrested; and our difficulty is—where are we to look for him?"

"Oh, Frank, this is dreadful! What are we to do?" But Maud said nothing. She leaned against Averil's chair, with her despairing eyes fixed on Frank's face.

"We can do little at present, I fear. Until Townley is out of danger we dare not hazard an advertisement. It would only put them on his track. I can set a special agent to work, and, if you wish it, we can settle with Isaacs about the bill."

"Yes, yes: I do wish it!"

"Then it shall be done at once. I am not without hopes, Averil, that he may find means to communicate with us. I am sure, if Townley recovers, that we shall hear from him soon."

"And if he dies?"

"Then he will get out of the country. But for that he will need money. But I have a strong conviction that he will not die. Now I will go and see after this business, and come back to you when I have settled it."

"But; you must not go without your dinner. I told Roberts that we would have a cold supper to-night. Go into the dining-room, Frank, and I will send some one to look after you. I must go to Mrs. Willmot now."

Frank was not unwilling to refresh his inner man. He went off obediently. He blessed Averil in his heart when, a few minutes later, Annette came into the room.

"My cousin wishes me to attend to you," she said, in her serious, sedate way. "Lottie is out, and Miss Seymour is engaged. What is there I can get you? There is cold lamb and salad, and a mayonnaise of salmon."

"I will help myself, and you shall sit and talk to me," returned Frank, who was quite equal to the occasion. There was something restful to him in the girl's tranquil unconsciousness. Frank's heart beat a little faster as she took the chair beside him, and talked to him in her soft voice.

"It is too horrible; there is no English word to express it. You must find him, Mr. Harland—you and monsieur—or my poor cousin will break her heart. You have hope, you say? That is well. In every case one must always have hope."

"I will not leave a stone unturned; you may be sure of that," replied the young man, fervently. He was ready to promise anything to this gentle, dark-eyed girl who seemed to repose such faith in him. Something of the old chivalrous feeling came into Frank's heart as he listened to her; a longing to be her true knight—hers and Averil's—and to hew his way through any obstacles.

"I shall not be here again to-night," he said, as he took a cup of coffee from her hand. "It is late now, and I must consult my father. But to-morrow—will you tell Averil that I will be here as early as possible? I shall see you then?" looking at her inquiringly.

"But, certainly! Why not?" she rejoined, with naÏve surprise. "This rose—it is one of the last—will you give it to monsieur?"

"Monsieur—it is always monsieur," he returned, rather dolefully. "I wish you thought of me half as much."

"But I think of you always," she replied, simply, "when I remember all my good friends."

Frank was obliged to content himself with this temperate compliment. It was this simplicity, this child-like, truthful nature, that had drawn Frank to her from the first. "I have never seen any girl like her," he said to his confidante, Louie, that night. "But, with all her sweetness, I doubt if she cares for me in the least."

"You will have to find that out for yourself, by and by," returned Louie, in her sensible, matter-of-fact way. In her heart she thought no one could be good enough for her brother. Louie's ideal sister-in-law would have been an impossible combination of beauty, intellect, and amiability—a walking miracle of virtues. She honestly believed that there was no man living to equal her father and Frank. Annette was very nice, but she almost wished that Frank had not been so hasty in his choice.

Mr. Harland quite forgot his pint as he listened to his son. He rubbed up his grey hair with mingled annoyance and perplexity.

"I always told Averil the lad was as weak as water," he said, irritably. "I hope that crazy mother of his is content with her work now. They have brought things to a pretty pass between them. Why, it seems to me that he has only just missed killing the man."

"I am afraid that Rodney thinks he has done for him. I wish we could find him, father—the poor fellow must be suffering a martyrdom."

"And serve him right, too," returned Mr. Harland, with unusual severity; and then he and his son plunged into a long business discussion.

It was a miserable evening at Redfern House. Averil could not leave her step-mother, who was in a pitiable condition of mind and body. Maud at last suggested that Dr. Radnor, who knew her mother's constitution, should send her a composing draught; and as this took immediate effect, they were at last set free. Lottie and Annette found it impossible to settle to their ordinary occupations, and after supper they sat out in the moonlight, talking in low, subdued tones of the sad events of the day. Lottie, who was very tender-hearted, and easily moved by other people's feelings, cried at intervals; she was fond of her cousin, in spite of his love of teasing, and the thought of him, lonely and unhappy, oppressed her sadly.

"I was afraid we were too happy," she murmured. "I don't think I have ever been so happy in my life. It has been such a beautiful summer—it brought you, my dear Fairy Order, and, oh! lots of nice things."

"It will not be always dark," replied Annette, quietly. "Look at that sky, my Lottie; how the little stars are shining through the cloud. Presently it will pass away. Oh, there is my cousin coming in search of us."

Yes, Averil had come to fetch them. It was late, very late, she said, and they would be safer in bed. Unwin had offered to watch that night. Averil could not rid herself of the thought that perhaps in the darkness of the night their poor boy might steal into his home. "He will see the light, and then he will know we are expecting him," she said to herself, as she followed the girls up-stairs.