Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio? Yes—such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less melancholy channel.
Yes—yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was his idea;—and then the tear—oh! It was easily accounted for. She was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the contents of the portfolio.
“Well—it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the face of the portrait,—for I might labour for hours—nay, for days, without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the dress—and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas! poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton, “you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on earth—and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have forgiven you!”
Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had written to Agnes.
But he was astounded—stupified by the conviction which burst upon him that the letter was gone!
Gone!—it might have dropped upon the floor—on the rug—in the fender? No:—vainly did he search—uselessly did he pry into every nook and corner he could think of;—the letter had disappeared!
He rang the bell furiously.
“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the summons.
“No, my lord,” was the answer.
“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.