“Yes, it would be dreadful to think of her wandering about alone. The very fact that she has hardly left that cottage for the last twenty years, except to go to church, would make her nervous and helpless among strangers and in a strange town. She would hardly be able to take care of herself, perhaps—and if, in addition to this, her mind is not quite right——”
“Oh, poor thing! It is terrible to think of it. And you do not even know where she has gone?”
“She told the servant she was going to London. God knows whether that is true or false. She took no luggage, not even a hand-bag.”
“She may have gone to her daughter.”
“To Mercy? Yes, that is an idea. It never occurred to me. She has been so cold and hard about her daughter in all these years—and yet it may be so. She may have relented at last.”
A servant announced the carriage. His Lordship’s portmanteau had been got in, and all was ready.
“Good-bye, Maria. I have no time to lose, as I have inquiries to make and telegrams to despatch at the station.”
“You will stay in Victoria Street, of course?”
“Yes. I shall telegraph to Mrs. Begby. I am taking Wilson; I shall be very well taken care of, be sure, dearest.”
He kissed her and hurried away. He sighed as he left that atmosphere of perfect peace—sighed again as he thought of the business that lay before him. He had to find her—this murderess—he had to prove that she was mad—if it were possible—and to put her away for the rest of her days in some safe retreat, secure from the hazard of discovery—a hard and bitter task for the man who had once loved her, and whose love had been her destruction.