"Then I'll waste no more time. I'll give them a week to think about it, and then—well, if you don't be in jail every mother's son of you, it will be no fault of mine."
He went out as he spoke, glared savagely at the men at the door, and mounting his horse, rode off.
That night he returned to town, and, although clerks and secretaries, detectives and spies, his servants and tools, were waiting to see him, he would see none, but went straight to his own room, which was double-locked and guarded.
After a slight rest, during which he slept the peaceful sleep of an innocent child, he dressed himself with scrupulous care, and went down to the Mildmays' house.
"Was Miss Mildmay up yet?" he asked.
The servant took him to Violet's drawing-room, where Violet sat, a letter in her hand, and a thoughtful and pained, yet glad, expression on her face.
She rose as he entered.
"I am so glad you have come," she said, wearily, but with a smile. "I have just had a letter," and she held up the open envelope.
"And I have some news," he said, "or I would not have intruded so early.
"Perhaps you know it," he added, with grave face. "Lady Ethel Boisdale and Mr. Fairfax have eloped."