And Sir Victor?
He sat like a man suddenly aroused from a deep, long sleep. He had not seen the face; he had caught but a glimpse of the figure and head; he had heard the voice speak but one little word, "Yes;" but—
Was he asleep or awake? Was it only a delusion, as so many other fancied resemblances had been, or was it after all—after all—
He rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-walker, suddenly aroused, on his face.
"Now, then, Sir Victor," the sharp, clear voice of Lady Portia said, at his side, "your martyrdom is ended. We are ready to go."
He led her to the carriage, assisted her and the young ladies in. How he excused himself—what incoherent words he said—he never knew. He was only conscious after a minute that the carriage had rolled away, and that he was still standing, hat in hand, on the sidewalk in front of Madame Mirebeau's; that the passers-by were staring at him, and that he was alone.
"Mad!" Lady Portia said, shrugging her shoulders and touching her forehead. "Mad as a March hare!"
"Mad?" Miss Howard repeated softly. "No, I don't think so. Not mad, only very—very miserable."
He replaced his hat and walked back to the shop-door. There reason, memory returned. What was he going in for? What should he say? He stood still suddenly, as though gazing at the wax women in elegant ball costume, swinging slowly and smirkingly round and round. He had heard a voice—he had seen a shapely head crowned with dark, silken hair—a tall, slender girl's figure—that was all. He had seen and heard such a hundred times since that fatal wedding evening, and when he had hunted them down, the illusion had vanished, and his lost love was as lost as ever. His lost Edith—his bride, his darling, the wife he had loved and left—for whom all those weary, endless months he had been searching and searching in vain. Was she living or dead? Was she in London—in England—where? He did not know—no one knew. Since that dark, cold autumn morning when she had fled from Powyss Place she had never been seen or heard of. She had kept her word—she had taken nothing that was his—not a farthing. Wherever she was, she might be starving to-day. He clenched his hands and teeth as he thought of it.
"Oh!" his passionate, despairing heart cried, "let me find her—let me save her, and—let me die!"