"Emphatically not, sir!"
"Then she is with Mrs. Vere-Manville at Nettlestead or in London—at least I will go there—at once."
"Then you will waste your time, sir. Diana has disappeared."
"Disappeared? Ah, you mean she has gone—run away? Pray, my lord, pray when—when did she go?"
His lordship looked at me keenly a while and when he spoke his voice seemed less harsh:
"The news would seem to disturb you, sir?"
"Beyond words, sir. Henceforth I shall know little rest until I find her. Pray when did she leave you—and how?"
"She fled—yesterday morning—stole from Wyvelstoke before daybreak—she was seen by one of the keepers stealing away in the dawn. She fled away to—hide her grief—leaving behind all her jewels and—a very—solitary, very old—man. She was all I had—my comrade, my Penthesilea—my loved daughter—"
His lordship's voice broke upon the word, his usually upright figure seemed suddenly bowed and shrunken, he looked indeed a very grief-stricken, decrepit old man as he stood fumbling in the pockets of his shabby coat, whence he presently drew a letter that shook and rustled in his fingers as he unfolded it.
"She left this also, sir," he continued with an evident effort, "pray read it—you will find some mention of—breaking hearts the which should interest you a little—read it, sir!"