It has been remarked more than once that truth is stranger than fiction; certainly no one, however highly imaginative, would have planned out a stranger and more improbable game of cross-purposes than was played by Trafford and Norman that night.

Trafford had wandered about in a Heaven-forsaken way from his rooms to the club, and through the park, just missing Norman by a minute or two; possessed by that restlessness which insomnia by night and brooding over his troubles by day had superinduced. If the porter had been in when Trafford wandered into the club on the second occasion, he would have heard of Norman’s call and inquiry for him, and the two men would have met, explanations would have ensued, and some portion of the awful load would have been lifted from Trafford’s mind. But the porter had gone out to meet the young woman to whom he was engaged, and had not transferred Norman’s message to the footman.

Trafford sat in a corner of the smoking-room moodily smoking for half an hour; then, as if unable to remain quiet for a longer period, got up and wandered out again. Esmeralda was never absent from his mind for a moment, and as he strode along the deserted paths under the trees in the park, he asked himself how he could best begin the search. An advertisement in the papers would be of no avail, even if she saw it; the private detective was not to be thought of for a moment. He did not know where to look for her—and Norman.

He went back to the club, and after smoking another cigar, he had a cab called and told the man to drive to Waterloo, half resolved to take Lilias into his confidence and seek her advice.

As he drove to the station, the cabman opened the trap-door in the roof and thrust down an evening paper.

“Like to see the paper, sir? Holocaust’s won.”

Trafford thanked the man and glanced at the paper absently. And suddenly, amongst the shipping advertisements, two words struck through his vacant eye upon his mind. They struck with the force of a revelation. The words were “Australia,” “Melbourne.” The thought of Three Star flashed upon him at once.

It was to Three Star, to her old friends, to the guardian of whom she always spoke so gratefully and lovingly, that Esmeralda had gone!

He cursed himself for a fool for not having thought of it before, and startled the cabby by jerking up the trap-door, and in a voice that trembled with excitement telling him to drive to the city office of the agents of the shipping company.

It was not the cabman’s business to tell his fare that the office would be closed, and Trafford did not think of the lateness of the hour until he was in front of the shut-up office. He sat and stared at it moodily for a moment or two, then he remembered that another address, at the docks, was given in the advertisement; and he told the cabman to drive there.

He felt that he could not gain much time by posting down at that time of the night; but he could not wait until the morning; he was doing something, commencing to search, at any rate.

When he arrived at the docks he was directed to the “E” side, and found a small crowd of men lingering about with that appearance of reaction which follows close upon extra exertion and excitement. He made his way to the agent’s office and found a young man just locking up for the night. He stared at Trafford’s haggard face, and as he listened to the sharp, stern questions as to the next vessel, at once concluded that Trafford was a criminal escaping from justice.

“If you’d been an hour and a half earlier you could have gone with the ‘Neptune,’” he said, with a smile. “She has only just left the dock. A fine vessel, too; one of our fastest.”

Trafford frowned impatiently.

“When does the next sail?” he asked.

“Thursday morning,” replied the clerk. As he spoke he turned over the passenger’s list mechanically.

“No, you wouldn’t have been able to go by the ‘Neptune,’ though, for she was full up. Her last two berths were taken this afternoon.”

“Is there none before Thursday?” asked Trafford, wearily.

“Not from here. The Blue Ball liner leaves Liverpool to-morrow,” said the clerk, reluctantly—his company was the White Ball. “You might catch her; but she’s not a particularly good ship, and not fast; nothing to be compared to ours.”

Trafford leaned against the desk; he was feeling the sinking, exhausted sensation which comes from want of food, too many cigars, and much mental travail, and the clerk eyed him almost sympathetically.

“Pity you weren’t here in the afternoon and secured one of those berths before the gentleman who took them. He’s a lord, I see—Lord Norman Druce.”

Trafford started and gazed at the man fiercely.

“What name did you say?” he demanded so sternly that the young fellow drew back as if he expected a blow.

“There’s the entry; you can see for yourself, sir,” he said, rather sullenly, and pointing to the book. Trafford looked at it, and for a moment could see nothing; then he read the line, “Lord Norman Druce, two berths. Nos. 128, 129. Paid.”

The blood surged to his face, and he gripped the edge of the desk.

The young man altered his opinion of the gentleman’s character.

“Did—was Lord Druce alone? Was he accompanied by a lady?” Trafford asked in a thick voice.

“Can’t say, sir,” replied the clerk. “The berths were booked with the agent himself. I only came on for the nightwork, and didn’t see the gentleman.”

“Is—is there any one here who did?” asked Trafford. The clerk considered for a moment.

“I’ll go and see; one of the porters or the dock-man might have noticed. Just wait a moment, sir.”

He was gone five minutes, which seemed five years to Trafford, who could not remove his eyes from the significant entry.

“I can’t find out for certain, sir,” said the clerk, upon his return. “There’s always such confusion in starting; but one of our men says he saw a gentleman, a tall, fair man, talking with a lady in the saloon deck, and he fancies they went aboard together; but he couldn’t swear to it.”

Trafford wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Thank you,” he said, as steadily as he could. “I have given you a great deal of trouble. One more question. Could I catch that vessel that sails from Liverpool to-morrow?”

The clerk glanced at the office clock.

“Well—you could,” he said, succinctly.

Trafford thanked him again and went out to the cab. He reeled slightly as the cool air met his face, and he passed his hand over his eyes. There was no doubt now. Since seeing Lady Wyndover he had permitted himself now and again to hope; but there was no doubt now. Norman and Esmeralda had gone back to Three Star, where they had met and learned to love each other.

He stood looking at the cab, his brain whirling. Common sense said: “Let them go; apply for a divorce; forget her.” But he was not in the mood to listen to common sense. He wanted—thirsted—to find them, to confront Norman, to exact the vengeance due to him. The blood was coursing through his veins like fire. “Follow them—follow them!” something seemed to whisper, to shout, in his ear.

He got into the cab and told the man to drive to Euston—and fast. The man looked at him curiously.

“Anywhere after that, sir?” he asked. “’Cause I’d get another horse or borrow a steam fire-engine.”

Trafford found that a train started for Liverpool in little more than half an hour, and having dismissed the cab, and filled the cabman with delight by the liberality of his fare, he paced up and down the platform, consumed with a burning impatience. He thought of Lilias once or twice, but the telegraph offices were closed, and the thought was only transient; his whole being was absorbed in the pursuit which had begun. At the last moment he got a whisky and soda and tried to eat a biscuit, but the well-known and detested station comestible seemed more sawdust than usual, and he dropped it in disgust.

When he reached Liverpool he drove straight to the docks, and found, with a kind of sardonic joy, that he could get a berth on board the “Trident,” and that she sailed early in the forenoon. He booked the berth in one of his numerous and seldom-used names, sent a telegram to Lilias and Lady Wyndover saying that he would write, and having purchased an outfit, went on board.

As the ship left her moorings, he stood looking down the river toward the sea—unlike the other passengers who looked, some tearfully, toward the shore they were leaving—stood and gazed with hot eyes and clinched teeth. In his mind he spanned the six weeks—the six dreary weeks which must elapse before he came up with the fugitives, and in fancy he already stood face to face with Norman, the friend who had betrayed and dishonored him.