No explanation of her absence was asked for by anybody.
He was so depressed that, although he of course took his share in the general conversation and exerted himself to appear unmoved by his disappointment, he felt sure that his hostess noticed it. When she and the other ladies left the room, he asked the oldest of the men present, who was a constant visitor at the house, what had become of Lady Jennings’ young friend and protégée.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? There’s been a split, I believe, a misunderstanding, quarrel, or something serious of that sort. I don’t know the details myself, and I can’t find out more than that. But Lady Jennings is very sensitive about it, and will not broach the subject with anybody, while one gets snubbed if one starts it oneself.”
Gerard was on thorns.
“When did it happen?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know exactly; but it was within the last few days. One by one her friends, as they called, found Miss Davison missing, and gradually so much has leaked out, and no more. So be warned.”
But Gerard could not accept the warning; he did not care two straws about Lady Jennings’ anger, compared with Rachel’s fate. And he had already decided to ask his hostess direct what had become of her young companion.
In the meantime the gloomiest doubts and forebodings filled his heart. Even that latest adventure with her had not cured the longings he felt for a sight of her, for a touch of her hand, for a look into those beautiful, mournful, enigmatic eyes, which had stirred him as no woman’s eyes had ever done before.
He made an opportunity of approaching Lady Jennings, and at once, in defiance of the warning he had received, asked where Rachel was, and whether she had consented to take a holiday.
The old lady’s face hardened, and her manner grew cold as she answered—