“Poor Theresa!” he said, at last. “What must have been your mental sufferings to drive you to this? A life’s devotion can never repay such wonderful love as yours!”
He clasped one hand to his burning brow, and looked about him mournfully. The place was fragrant with her sweet presence, like the perfume of a flower that is dead.
He stepped to the window, and gazed at the busy crowd below. Then the full force of Theresa’s meaning burst upon him, and he cried aloud in his agony.
He reverently placed the letter in his pocketbook, and rang for Stimson. The valet was near at hand, and came quickly into the room.
“Lady Annesley has gone away, Stimson,” his master said, brokenly, “has left me with some mistaken notion of giving me my freedom. She heard something last night, when I was angry with that scoundrel, Rivington—something concerning Lady Elaine Seabright, and her heart is broken. Stimson, I must find her if all London has to be searched. Her words may be wild and irresponsible, but my heart reproaches me sorely. Now, try and remember what she said to you last, and how she looked.”
The valet could only repeat what he had already stated.
“It seems,” Sir Harold said, “that the fates are all against me. I have been detained at every turn against my will.”
He sprang up resolutely.
“There is nothing that you can do, Stimson, and I am incapable of sustained thought at present. Within an hour, though, the whole machinery of the law shall be put in motion.”
He stepped swiftly away without another word, and, jumping into a cab, was driven to Scotland Yard once more.