Gradually it dawned upon Glynn that Deering was watching him, that he suspected him of knowing more of Elsie's disappearance than any one else. He was careful not to let Deering see that he perceived this, and so, under the fair seeming of friendly acquaintanceship, the two men kept watch over each other with deadly pertinacity and keenness, Glynn keeping profoundest silence as to his conviction that he had heard Elsie's voice, a conviction that tormented him in all his silent, lonely hours. Often he accused himself of stupidity for too readily believing the stately Mrs. Storrer. But her quiet disavowal of all likeness in the photograph to her French teacher, coupled with Lambert's letter stating that he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter in America, put him off the idea of hunting Mademoiselle Laroche further. Sometimes he felt that he would give all he possessed to shake himself clear of the haunting horror which poisoned his life. Then the memory of Elsie's sweet, grave, holy eyes would rise before him, and he felt that he could endure all things, hope all things, could he but find her, and restore her to what she was. On the whole, evil anticipations predominated. He had been greatly disappointed by Lambert's avoidance of him. He could not bear to think that the unhappy, bereaved father had withdrawn his confidence.
Thus battling with the fiends of doubt and fear that lacerated his heart, Glynn dragged himself on from day to day.
In the last week of February Deering's land-agent came to town, bringing with him maps, plans, and calculations. To Glynn's great surprise he proved to be a certain Dick Weldon, formerly one of his school-fellows. This recognition led to some intercourse. Glynn, without deliberate questioning, gathered a good deal of information, which threw a new light on Deering's character in some directions. On the subject of the quest which engrossed them both Glynn maintained a profound silence.
His old acquaintance dined with him, and they talked over bygone days and boyish escapades with zest, at least on Weldon's side. It was amazing to Glynn how fresh and full the details of past adventures—even small minutiæ—dwelt in his old acquaintance's mind, untroubled as it was by a crowd of varied experiences. He had, it seemed, led a quiet, busy life, humbly useful, but unexciting.
One cold, dry, dark evening Glynn had accepted an invitation to dine with Weldon at the hotel in Holborn where he usually stayed on his short visits to town.
Dinner was over, and both men were enjoying a cigar. The host had put one or two queries, evidently prompted by the curiosity which the contrast between Glynn's prosperity and his gloomy depression evoked, but he could draw forth no responsive confidence, and Weldon, falling back on his own interests, described his home, his wife, and children, pressing Glynn warmly to pay them a visit, when, to the great surprise of both, Deering was ushered in. He apologized shortly for his intrusion, and explained that he had just had private intelligence that the member for a borough town near Denham was dangerously ill, that even were he to recover it would be long before he could enter into public life again, and that he (Deering) wished to win the probably vacant seat. He therefore wished Weldon, who knew the local population, and was well able to feel its pulse, to leave town next morning, and put matters in train for an immediate canvass, as the retirement of the sitting member would most probably be announced in a day or two.
As soon as he could withdraw without too rude a display of indifference, Glynn rose to say good-night; when Deering, somewhat to his annoyance, proposed to go with him.
"I have no more to say now, Weldon. As soon as the death or retirement is declared, I will go down to Denham, and we will not let the grass grow under our feet!"
On reaching the entrance of the hotel, they stopped, intending to call a cab, and while waiting Glynn's attention was attracted by two cloaked and veiled women, who were standing close together just within the doorway. One was tall and stout, the other barely of middle size, her shoulders, even through the rain-cloak wrapped round her, showed unmistakable grace,—unmistakable and familiar; a small hat was entirely enveloped in a thick veil, which was tied over her face, the ends being brought loosely round the throat to the front. Glynn's eyes were riveted on this figure, while he seemed to be peering into the darkness, and felt nervously anxious not to direct Deering's notice to the object which attracted him.
"If he could only hear her speak!" He listened intently.