'Yes, I must wait.'
He passed the night at the house. Mr. Baxendale was in London, parliamentarily occupied. At eleven next morning he went again to Banbrigg. Again he was but a short time absent, and in his face, as he entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Baxendale read catastrophe.
'She has gone!' he said. 'She left very early this morning. The girl has no idea where she has gone to, but says she won't return—that she has left for good. What does this mean?'
'What does it mean?' the lady repeated musingly. 'I wonder, I wonder.'
'She knew I called yesterday; I left my name. She has gone to avoid me.'
'That may be. But all her preparations were evidently made.'
'But it may not be true. The girl of course would say whatever she was bidden to. I don't believe that she has really gone.'
'I do,' said Mrs. Baxendale, with quiet significance.
'On what grounds? You know more than you will tell me. Is there no one with common humanity? Why do you plot against me? Why won't you tell me what you know?'
'I will, if you sit down there and endeavour to command yourself. That is, I will tell you certain things that I have heard, and something that I have seen. Then we will reason about them.'