No more was said. Andrew Larkspur hurried away to eat as good a dinner as he could get through in ten minutes, and Honoria went to her dressing-room to prepare herself for her journey.
"Pray for me, kind and faithful friend," she said, earnestly, as she bade adieu to the captain.
In a few minutes more she was once again speeding along the familiar road which she had travelled under such different circumstances, and with such different feelings. She remembered the first time she had driven through those rustic villages, past those swelling uplands, those woods and hills.
Then she had come as a bride, beloved, honoured, seated by the side of an adoring husband—a happy future shining before her, a bright horizon without one cloud.
Only one shadow to come between her and the sunshine, and that the shadow of a cruel memory—the haunting recollection of that foul deed which had been done beneath the shelter of the darkness, by the side of the ever-flowing river. Even to-day, when her heart was full of her child's sweet image, that dark memory still haunted her. It seemed to her as if some mystic influence obliged her to recall the horrors of that night.
"The curse of innocent blood has been upon me," she thought to herself. "I shall never know rest or peace till the murder of Valentine Jernam has been avenged."
Lady Eversleigh went at once to her rooms in Percy Street, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur betook himself to certain haunts, in which he expected to glean some information. That he was not entirely unsuccessful will appear from his subsequent conversation with Lady Eversleigh. After an absence, in reality short, but which, to her suspense and impatience appeared of endless duration, Mr. Larkspur presented himself before her.
"Well, Mr. Larkspur, what news?" she cried, eagerly, as he entered the room.
"Not much, my lady; but there's something done, at any rate. I've found out one fact."
"And what is that?"