Cynthia, unconscious of the plots of which she was at present the innocent centre, was meanwhile contending with a sensation of profound discouragement, mental and physical. She had a severe headache, and was deeply depressed in spirits. She had lain awake almost entirely for two nights trying to reconcile her ideal of Hubert with the few words that had escaped him—words which surely pointed to a darker knowledge, a deadlier guilt than any which her love could of itself have attributed to him. Had he known then all the time that her father was not a murderer? Was her father's theory correct? Had he been screening his sister at the poor working-man's expense? Cynthia's blood ran cold at the thought, for, in that case, what side was she to take? She could not abandon her father—she might abandon Hubert; but, strange mystery of a woman's heart, she could not love him less. What she could do she knew not. For Enid's sake indeed she had set him free; but in the hour of her anguish she questioned her right to do so; for surely, if he knew more of the manner of Sydney Vane's death than the world knew, there was even a greater barrier between him and Enid than between him and Cynthia herself. Enid would give him up—Cynthia felt sure of that; and, if she gave him up too, he would be indeed alone. The world might say that he deserved his loneliness; but she could not take the world's view. To her the man that she loved was sacred; his faults were to be screened, his crimes forgiven. Whatever he did, she could never cease to love him. So she said to herself; but, after all, her hour of trial had not come; she did not know as yet all that Hubert Lepel had done.

She had seen Hubert leave her with a sensation of the deepest dismay. She felt that a crisis had come and gone, and that in some way she had failed to turn it to the best account. In spite of her expressed resolve to see Hubert no more, she was disappointed that he did not return to her. She expected to see him on the following day—to remark his face at a concert where she was to sing on the Wednesday evening. He had left her on a Tuesday; she was sure that she would get a letter from him on Thursday. But Thursday was almost over, and she had neither seen nor heard from him. Had he resolved to give her up? Was he ill? Why had she not heard a word from him since Tuesday? She racked her brain to discover a cause for his silence other than her own wild appeal to him; for she did not believe that that alone would suffice to keep him away. But it was all of no avail.

Another source of anxiety for her lay in the fact that she had also not heard from her father since Tuesday morning. She did not know whether he had left Mrs. Gunn's house or not, and did not like to risk the sending of a letter. That he trusted far too much to his disguise Cynthia was well aware. His rashness made her sometimes quiver all over with positive fright when she thought of it. He was running a terrible risk—and for what cause? At first, simply because he wanted to see his daughter; now because he fancied that he had found a clue to the murderer of Sydney Vane—a slight, faint, elusive clue, but one which seemed to him worth following up. And Cynthia, who at first had hesitated to leave England, would now have been glad to start with him at once, if only she could get him away. She began to fear that he would stay at any risk.

"You are losing your beauty, child," Madame della Scala had discontentedly said to her that morning at breakfast-time; "you have grown ten years older in the last week. And it is the height of the season, and you have dozens of engagements! To-night, now, you sing at Lady Beauclerc's—do you not?"

"Yes, Madame; but I shall be all right by that time. I have a headache this morning."

"You are too white, child, and your eyes are heavy. It does not suit your style to be colorless. You had better get my maid to attend to you, before you go out to-night. She is incomparable at complexions."

"Thank you—I shall not need rouge when I begin to sing," said Cynthia, laughing rather joylessly; "the color will come of itself."

"I know one who always used to bring it," said Madame, casting a sharp glance at the girl's pale face. "He had it in his pocket, I suppose, or at the tips of his fingers—and I never saw it fail with you. Where is the magician gone, Cynthia mia? Where is Mr. Lepel—ce bel homme who brought the rouge in his pocket? Why, the very mention of his name does wonders! The beautiful red color is back again now!"

"I do not know where Mr. Lepel is," said Cynthia, wishing heartily that her cheeks would not betray her.

"You have not quarrelled?"

"I do not know, Madame."

"Ah, then, you have! But you are a very silly child, and ought to know better after all that you have gone through. Quarrelling with Mr. Lepel means quarrelling with your bread-and-butter, as you English people term it. Why not keep on good terms with him until your training, at any rate, is complete?"

Cynthia raised her dark eyes, with a new light in them.

"I am to be friendly with him as long as I need his help? Is that it, Madame? I do not quite agree with you; and I think the time has come when I must be independent now."

"Independent! What can you do?" said Madame, throwing up her hands. "A baby like you—with that face and that voice! You want very careful guarding, my dear, or you will spoil your career. You must not think of independence for the next ten years."

Cynthia meditated a little. She did not want to tell Madame della Scala, who was a confirmed chatterer, that she thought of going to America; and yet, knowing that her departure would probably be sudden and secret, she did not want to omit the opportunity of saying a few necessary words.

"If I took any steps of which you did not approve, dear Madame, I hope that you would forgive me and believe that I was truly grateful to you for all your kindness to me."

"What does that mean?" said Madame shrewdly. "Are you going to be married, cara mia? Is an elopement in store for us? Dio mio, there will be a fine fuss about it in the newspapers if you do anything extraordinary! You are becoming the fashion, my dear, as they say in England; and, when you are the fashion, your success is assured."

"I am not going to do anything extraordinary," said Cynthia, forcing a smile, "and I do not mean to elope with anybody, dear Madame; I only wanted to thank you for all that you have done for me. And now I must practise for the evening. Perhaps music will do my headache good."

But, even if music benefited her head, it did not raise her spirits. Each time that the postman's knock vibrated through the house, her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to pause in her singing until she had ascertained that no letter had come for her. No letter—no message from either Hubert or her father—what did this silence mean?

The day wore on drearily. She would not go out, much to Madame's vexation; she practised, she tried to read, she looked at her dresses—she tried all the usual feminine arts for passing time, going so far even as to take up some needlework, which she generally detested; but, in spite of all, the day was cruelly long and blank. She dined early in the afternoon, as she was going to sing that evening; and it was about seven o'clock that she resolved to go and dress for the party to which she was bound, saying to herself that all hope was over for that day—that she was not likely to hear from Hubert Lepel that night.

Just as she was going up-stairs a knock came to the door. She lingered on the landing, wondering whether any visitor had come for her; and it was with a great leap of the heart that she heard her own name mentioned, and saw the maid running up the stairs to overtake her before she reached her room.

"It's Jenkins—Mr. Lepel's man, miss," said Mary breathlessly; "and he wants to know if he can speak to you for a moment."

Cynthia was half-way down-stairs before the sentence was out of the girl's mouth. Jenkins was standing in the hall. He was an amiable-looking fellow, and, although he had spoken flippantly enough to Sabina Meldreth of his master's friendship for Miss West, he had a genuine admiration for her. Cynthia had won his heart by kindly words and looks; she had found out that he had a wife and some young children, and had made them presents, and visited the new baby in her own inimitably frank, gracious, friendly way; and Jenkins was secretly of opinion that his master could not do better than marry Miss Cynthia West, although she was but a singer after all. He spoke to her with an air of great deference.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I thought that I'd better come and tell you about Mr. Lepel."

"Have you a message—a note?" cried Cynthia eagerly.

"No, ma'am. Mr. Lepel's not able to write, nor to send messages. Mr. Lepel's ill in bed, ma'am, and the doctor's afraid that it is brain-fever."

Cynthia gasped a little.

"I thought he—he must be ill," she said, rather to herself than to Jenkins, who however heard, and was struck with sympathetic emotion immediately.

"I thought you'd think so, ma'am; and therefore I made so bold as to look round," he said respectfully. "He's not been himself, so to speak, for the last few days; and when his sister—Mrs. Vane—was up from Beechfield to see him, he seemed took worse; and Mrs. Vane she sent me for a doctor."

"Is Mrs. Vane with him now, then?" Cynthia asked quickly.

"No, ma'am. She did not stop long; but I expect that she'll be round either to-night or to-morrow morning."

"And is Mr. Lepel to have nobody to nurse him?" asked Cynthia indignantly.

"There's my wife, ma'am, who is used to nursing; and, if my master is worse, a trained nurse can be sent for. I thought you would like to know, ma'am. I've been talking to the landlady, and she's quite agreeable for my wife to come on for a bit and help to wait on Mr. Lepel. She's there now."

"I am very much obliged to you for coming, Jenkins."

"I thought, ma'am," continued Jenkins, "that, if ever you was passing that way, you might like to look in maybe to ask after Mr. Lepel, you know. If you was good enough always to ask for my wife, you see, ma'am, she could tell you how my master was, or any news about him."

Cynthia grasped the situation at once, and felt her face flush as she listened to the man's awkward kindly words. Evidently Jenkins knew that she was unacquainted with Mr. Lepel's family, and was trying to save her from the unpleasantness of meeting any of them unexpectedly. The thought gave her a moment's bitter humiliation; then she saw the kindliness of the motive and felt a throb of gratitude.

"It is very good of you to tell me that, Jenkins," she said, frankly putting out her hand to him, "and I am very much obliged to you. I shall come to-morrow; it is impossible for me to come to-night."

Jenkins was not accustomed to have his hand shaken by those whom he served, and Cynthia's action embarrassed him considerably. He was glad when she went on to ask a question.

"Do you think that Mr. Lepel is very—very ill?" There was a pathetic tremor in her voice.

"Well, ma'am, he don't know nothing; he lies there and talks to himself—that's all."

"He is unconscious! Oh!" cried Cynthia, as if the words had given her a stab of pain. "Does he talk about any one—anything?" she asked wistfully.

"We can't tell much of what he says, ma'am. But I think he was mainly anxious to see you. He kep' on sending messages to you; and that's partly why I come round this evening."

Cynthia wrung her hands.

"And I can't go—at least to-night; and I must—I must!"

"Don't you take on, ma'am," said Jenkins, evidently much moved by her distress. "I wouldn't trouble about to-night if I was you. Mrs. Vane may be there again, or the General, and a host o' folks. It would only bother them, and do my master no good, if you went to-night. To-morrow morning'll be the time. And now I must be going; for I could only get away while my wife was there, and she wanted to get back to the children by nine o'clock."

So Jenkins took his leave, and Cynthia went up to her room to dress for her party.

What a mockery it seemed to her to don her pretty frock, her ornaments, her flowers—to see herself a radiant vision of youth and loveliness in her mirror—while all the time her heart was bleeding for her lover's suffering, and he lay tossing upon a bed of sickness, calling vainly upon her name! If she could have done as she liked, she would have relinquished all her engagements and sought his bed-side at once. But—fortunately perhaps—she was bound, for many reasons, to sing at Lady Beauclerc's party. Madame della Scala and others would be injured in reputation, if not in pocket, should she fail to appear. And, although she would not mind sacrificing her own interests, she could not sacrifice those of her friends even for the sake of her love.

She was said never to have looked so brilliant or sung so magnificently before. There was a new strange touch of pathos in her eyes and voice—something that stirred the hearts of those who heard. The new vibration in her voice was put down to genius by her audience, and not by any means to emotion.

"That girl will equal Patti if she goes on like this," said one musical amateur to another that evening.

"But she won't go on like this," his friend replied. "She'll marry, or break down, or something; she won't last; she won't be tied down to a professional life—that's my prophecy. She'll bolt!"

The amateur laughed him to scorn. But he had reason to alter his tone when some years later his friend reminded him of his prediction, and coupled it with the information that Cynthia West's last appearance as a singer had been at Lady Beauclerc's party. She never sang in public again.

But she had no idea, during the evening in question, that it was absolutely her last appearance. Her mind had never been so much set on a professional career as it was just then. She meant to go to America with her father certainly, but to take engagements as a vocalist in the States. That she was at all likely to cease work so suddenly and so soon never once occurred to her.

She was glad when the evening was over—glad to get back to her own quiet room, and to lay certain plans for the morrow. She would go to Hubert in the morning—not to stay of course, but to see whether he was well nursed and tended; and she would take with her the ornaments that he had presented to her, and which she had meant to give back. She would get Mrs. Jenkins to put them away for her in some safe drawer or box; and, when he was better, he would find them and understand. She would accept nothing more from his hands. Yet, with all her pride and her sense of injured dignity, she wept half the night at the thought that he was suffering and that she could do nothing to alleviate his pain.

She set off the next morning, between nine and ten o'clock, with a little black bag in her hand. It was larger than she needed it to be for mere conveyance of the jewelry which she wanted to restore; but she meant to fill it with fruit—black tempting grapes and red-cheeked hot-house peaches—for the invalid before she reached the house. She left word with Mary that she did not know when she would return, and that Madame was not to wait luncheon or dinner on her account. This message, and the fact of her carrying away a bag, led some persons to believe that she was acting a part in a long-premeditated scheme when she left Madame della Scala's house that morning. But no scheme was present in any shape or form to Cynthia's mind.

She did not at once see a hansom, and therefore she walked for a few yards along the broad pavement of the Bayswater Road, where at that hour not many passers-by were to be encountered. And here, to her great surprise, she met her father—but a father so changed, so utterly transformed in appearance, that she would not have known him but for his voice. He wore an overcoat that she had never seen before, and a tall hat; he had got rid of the white hair and beard, and had even shaved off his whiskers; he remained a lean, brown-faced, resolute-looking man, more refined, but decidedly more commonplace, than he had been before. This man would pass easily in a crowd; people used to stop and gaze after Reuben Dare.

"Oh, I am so thankful—so glad!" cried Cynthia, when the meaning of the change burst upon her. "Nobody would recognise you now, father; your own face is a greater disguise than any amount of snowy hair. What made you alter yourself in this way?"

"Cynthia," said her father, drawing her into a quiet little side-street, and speaking in low earnest tones, "I have been a great fool! I wish I had taken your advice earlier. That woman Meldreth suspects me. For aught I know, I am already watched and followed. There is not a moment to lose. If I mean to escape, I'd better get out of the country as fast as I can—or find some snug corner where I can lie close until they have left off looking for me. There is a cab—a four-wheeler. Let us get into that, and we can talk as we go. I don't see any one who appears to be dogging me at present. Where were you going?"

"I will go wherever you go, father," said Cynthia.