"Rely upon it that I shall not remain away an hour longer than necessary," answered the captain.
An hour afterwards he departed from Raynham in a post-chaise.
He left without having taken any farewell of Gertrude Eversleigh. He could not trust himself to see her.
This grim, weather-beaten old soldier had surrendered his heart entirely to the child of his dead friend. He travelled Londonwards as fast as continual relays of post-horses could convey him; and on the morning after he had received the letter from Lady Eversleigh, a post-chaise covered with the dust of the roads, rattled up to the Clarendon Hotel, and the traveller sprang out, after a sleepless night of impatience and anxiety.
"Show me to Lady Eversleigh's rooms at once," he said to one of the servants in the hall.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man; "what name did you say?"
"Lady Eversleigh—Eversleigh—a widow-lady, staying in this house."
"There must be some mistake, sir. There is no one of that name at present staying in the hotel," answered the man.
The housekeeper had emerged from a little sitting-room, and had overheard this conversation.
"No, sir," she said, "we have no one here of that name."