The Duke passed quickly by Anne in the little hall, and went into the room where Miss Traynor sat in the dim light of a single lamp. As he entered, she had been sitting with her head bowed upon her chest. She had not uttered an exclamation on reading Marion's brief note. She had not wept a tear since. It was now ten o'clock. Half an hour ago that note had come. It lay on the table beside her. She had put on her spectacles to read it, and had forgotten to take them off. As the young man entered the room, she looked up.

"Miss Traynor! Miss Traynor, what is this Anne tells me? Is it true Marion has left the house?"

"What?" said she.

"Anne tells me that Marion has left the house, and that you do not know where she is, and that she said she is not coming back."

"Anne told me she was not in the house, and I got that note a while ago."

She pointed to the table.

He took up the note and read it. Then he sat down without a word, and for a long time there was unbroken silence.

When Miss Traynor saw her niece's writing, addressed to herself on a stamped envelope which had come by the post, all her faculties had been suddenly stimulated into extraordinary activity. She had had, ever since his visit earlier in the day, a dull misgiving that something had gone wrong, or was going wrong. The sight of her niece's handwriting instantly confirmed her suspicions. She tore the letter open, and in a minute had mastered its contents. The letter was very brief, and ran as follows:

"My own dearest Aunt,

"I have all along been terrified by the changes which have taken place in his fortunes. I am, as you know, only a poor plain girl, with no pretensions to blood or family. It is therefore impossible for anything more to be between him and me. I have made my mind up never to see him again. I am sure he would not stay away for my telling him. I have no choice but to go and hide myself until he has grown wise enough to forget.

"Your always most loving niece,

"Marion."

When Miss Traynor had finished reading, the extraordinary mental activity which had sprung up in her died out, and she sank into a dull stupid state, in which there was nothing clear before her mind. For years she had been an invalid incapable of active bodily exercise. She now found herself alone in a house with her servant, and the knowledge that, as far as she might be able to do anything, she might as well be dead. Marion had fled. She could not move, and even if she were suddenly restored to health and strength, she had so long been unaccustomed to cross the threshold of her own door, that she would have been quite helpless. All this rushed into her mind in a moment, while the mind continued still active. Then the activity was exhausted, her chin dropped upon her chest and until Cheyne entered the room she had had no clear image of anything in her mind.

He broke the silence at last.

"Miss Traynor, this is dreadful. This is awful. I too got a letter from her this evening. It contains something of the substance of yours, but it did not hint at her leaving home. When did she go out?"

He was looking vacantly as he spoke at the feeble old woman before him.

"I do not know. Anne can tell you I daresay."

Anne was called. She thought Miss Durrant had gone out a little after five. She could not say exactly.

"There is not a moment to be lost. She must be found to-night," said he, as the servant withdrew.

"It would be well she was found to-night," said Miss Traynor mechanically. She did not seem to know what his words meant--of whom he was speaking. After a moment's pause, she added: "I think she will come back to-night, for she did not even take a shawl with her; and you know, Charlie, it will be very cold soon, won't it?"

He was greatly shocked at this speech. She had never called him Charlie before, and what she said about the shawl plainly showed her mind was unhinged. It was obvious to him that he could do no good by staying. Without saying another word, beyond a formal "Good-bye for the present; I may see you later on," he rose, and went to the door.

"Any time you come I will see you," said the poor invalid quietly, "for I intend waiting up until my child comes home. I think we ought to have a fire for her when she comes in; you know, Charlie, she did not take even a shawl with her, and a place always looks twice more like home when there's a fire in the room we love best."

As he was going out he called Anne, and told her to remain in the room with her mistress until he returned.

"If Miss Traynor refuses to go to bed, as I fear she will, you must sleep in a chair. I'll be back as soon as ever I can. I have a cab at the door. I'll leave it there; and if you want a doctor, or anything else, you can send the cab."

Then he hurried out, told the cabman to wait at the disposal of the servant, and walked off in search of another. He sprang into a hansom, and gave the order--"Scotland Yard."

He did not remain long in the Yard. Once more jumping into the hansom, he drove to Charing Cross, and entered a court, where he remained a short time. Then he went to Finsbury Square. He drove to a few other places that night, and at twelve o'clock he dismissed the hansom in Piccadilly.

"I do not know what more I can do to-night. The police and every inquiry-office in London are on the alert now. It is too late for the morning papers. What else can I do? Nothing, as far as I can see, but go back and see how the poor old lady is. There will be no news for a few hours, at the earliest."

He set off to walk to Tenby Terrace. He had nothing to do but to kill' time, and walking killed more time than driving. To the police and at the private inquiry-offices he had given the name of Ashington, and his address at the hotel. They had all promised to send the first intelligence there at the earliest moment. His orders had been, that if any news came, and the messenger at the hotel found him out, the messenger was to wait.

It was one o'clock when he got back to the Knightsbridge house. The cab was still standing at the door. He knocked, and was let in by Anne. There was no news. No one had come near the house since. Miss Traynor had not stirred. She had refused to go to bed up to this. She had, Anne believed, dozed in her chair. Anne had slept a few minutes.

He said he would go in and see Miss Traynor.

"Miss Traynor," said he, as he entered the room, "I have run back to say that I have been round to all the offices"--he did not mention what kind of offices--"and have given full description and instructions; and you may rely on it that, if Marion does not return here to-night, we shall know where she is, and fetch her home in the morning."

Miss Traynor had not been asleep; she was just in the same state as he had left her--half-stunned. She said:

"It is very good of you, Charlie. I am sure she will come home some time to-night. I'll sit up for her--I'll sit up; I am not sleepy. You know I often lie awake half the night. I shouldn't mind it if she had only taken a shawl--ever so light a shawl."

He told Anne, if Miss Durrant came back during the night, to send the cab instantly to his hotel.

Although he had walked a good deal that day, and had not yet fully recovered from the effects of that swim, he resolved to walk back to his hotel. All that could be done had been done, and until morning, at all events, there was nothing for him to do but wait, and the best place for waiting was at his hotel, whither the first news would be carried.

His mind was highly strung, and he went at a quick rate. He had not yet given himself time to think; he did not mean to give himself time to think. He had only one thing to do now, and that was to find May. Until she was found, all his thoughts should be centred in one idea; there would be plenty of time for thought afterwards.

He had no sensation of tenderness or love toward May in his thoughts while thinking of her flight or recovery; he felt as though he had no personal interest in the pursuit. That girl must be brought back to her home at any expense, at any risk; and he meant to bring her back, though he carried her by main force, and broke the law in so doing. To her aunt's house he would bring her, as sure as he had carried that line to that yacht. He had risked his life to save life at Silver Bay; he would risk his life, and all he was worth, to place this girl once more under her aunt's roof. When she was safe there, then he might think of other things, such as his love for her, himself, and so on.

No messenger awaited him at the hotel; of course he could hardly hope for news yet. He left word with the hall-porter that if anyone called for Mr. Ashington, Mr. Ashington might be found in his own room.

He had engaged a suite of rooms on the first floor, and to the sitting-room of this he went. He never felt less inclined to sleep in all his life; all his mind and body tingled for something to do, and yet he could do nothing but wait.

Miss Traynor never lay down that night, but sat in her chair with her chin sunken on her breast, and her dull lifeless eyes fixed on the dimly-illumined carpet of the little sitting-room which had for so many years been brightened by the young girl's presence and cheered by her voice.

By six o'clock in the morning no fewer than four clues had been reported to the Duke; but as each one came from a different office, and each pointed to a different point of the compass as the line of flight, and as none was declared to be thoroughly satisfactory, there was nothing to be done but to wait still further.

At seven o'clock breakfast was brought to Cheyne in his private room. He ate with appetite, and when he had finished, lit a cigar. He was engaged in business of importance, which required all his faculties.

At half-past eight Mr. Bracken was announced. Cheyne told the waiter to show the gentleman up instantly.

Bracken was the detective into whose hands he had confided the Scotland Yard branch of the inquiry. Bracken was a tall, lank, solemn-looking man, dressed in black. Only that there was no appearance of relaxation or festivity about him, he would have looked like a clergyman on his holiday tour.

"Well, Mr. Bracken," said Cheyne, after he had motioned the detective to a chair, "any news?"

"Yes, sir. We have news of the first importance."

"No clue, I hope, Mr. Bracken."

"No, sir; not a clue this time. Clues are very good things when you have nothing to go on. We're bound to have a clue in a few hours, it's the privilege of our profession."

"I know," said Cheyne, "a kind of perquisite."

"In a way, sir, a kind of perquisite; or, if you like it better, the flash note by which we work our confidence-trick."

"Well, Mr. Bracken, you are very candid, and from your candour I assume you have a genuine note for me in this case."

The detective took out a large pocket-book, and having drawn a letter from it, handed the letter to Cheyne, saying:

"That's a genuine note, sir."

Cheyne took the letter out of the envelope and read:

"8, Garthorne Street,

"Kennington Road.

"Sir,

"I am uneasy, and cannot rest without writing you a line. I let lodgings in this house to ladies only. This evening a young lady, a little under the middle height, and of very good figure, dark eyes, brown hair, and pretty expression, called and wanted me to accommodate her. She had no luggage, and when I asked her for the address of some friend in London, she seemed much disturbed, told me she could not give it to me, and before I could say or do anything, she hastened out of the room and house. She was in deep distress; and ever since she went I feel as though she must have left her friends, and that in all likelihood they will make inquiries after her. In case you should wish for anything I can tell you of her, I shall be only too glad to give you all information I have.

"Yours faithfully,

"Harriet Dumaresq.

"The Chief Inspector of Police,

"Scotland Yard."

"You have a cab at the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the photograph I gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then; come along at once. We will drive direct there without loss of a moment."

When they arrived, Mrs. Dumaresq was up, and would see them immediately. In a few minutes she came into the room. Bracken explained the object of their visit, and showed a photograph of May, which the old lady at once recognised as that of the young lady who wished to engage lodgings there the evening before. Then Bracken and Cheyne took their leave, having found that the thoughtful and kindhearted old widow could give them no more information beyond the fact that the young lady, when she left that house, took the way leading into Kennington Road.

When the two men got outside, Cheyne said:

"Well, Bracken, what do you think of this?"

"I think, sir, we have done a good morning's work. The lady was here surely last evening, and late too, so that it is almost certain she slept in London last night. Now that's a most useful thing to know'; for we had all the trains watched this morning, and if she tried to get away by any of them, we shall have news of her. As it was late when she was here, we may take it she slept somewhere in this neighbourhood; so that we have limited the district we shall have to examine. These are two great things; in fact, they are nearly as good as if we had got sight of her."

"And what do you think we should do next?"

"The best thing for you to do is to go back to the hotel. They may have more knowledge of her there now. I'll go round here to the stations, and see if they know anything. I suppose, sir, you would not mind spending a little money locally on this district, now that we have a--I won't say clue, but trace?"

"No, no; spend any money you like. You will come back as soon as you have made arrangements here?"

"I will."