“Something strange and mysterious also,” he said. “I went to Cheltenham Terrace an hour ago, just on the chance of getting a glimpse of—of——”
“Of Laura Treherne. Well, old man?”
“And I met with a similar shock to yours in Warden Forest. I found the house shut up, and she—gone, vanished, disappeared!”
“What!” exclaimed Jack.
Leonard paced up and down.
“I went to inquire next door, and I learned that old Mr. Treherne was dead—you remember my telling you that the blinds were down—that the funeral took place yesterday, and Miss Treherne had gone. They only lodged there, it seems, and of course she could go at any moment. Where she has gone no one seems to know. So there is an end to my little romance! But no! it shall not end there.”
“No; take courage by my luck, old man,” said Jack, laying his hand on his shoulder—“take courage by me! Let us talk about it.”
“No, no!” said Leonard, shrinking; “I cannot—yet. You don’t know how I feel. Tell me what happened today. Was she glad to see you? Did you let her see that you cared for her? Of course you did.”
“Yes,” said Jack, with a proud, happy smile. “Yes, I told her that I loved her, and—oh, Len! Len! I know that she cares for me!”
Leonard stared at him gravely, and put down a paper which he had taken up. But Jack saw it and took it off the table.