"I do not, indeed—I wish I did."
"Well, for Heaven's sake, do nothing foolish when she does appear, for you will find her, if she is above ground."
Friday, and no letter. Glynn kept indoors nearly the whole day, sent an excuse to the house where he was engaged to dine, and sat, trying to read, and watching for the last delivery. It came, but brought him no letter from Elsie.
Then he called himself a drivelling fool, a weak-minded idiot. Why had he allowed the tears and terror of that unhappy girl to delude him? He ought to have kept her in his grasp once he had found her. But he had been so sure of her keeping faith. Now his very faith was shaken. What might not be revealed if Elsie had deceived him?
He could not sleep. He spent the night in planning schemes of detection. He found in the depths of his present depression the measure of the height of hope to which he had risen yesterday.
Next morning he rose, fevered by want of sleep, and eager to begin his search. He was dressed before the eight o'clock post came in, and was already writing, when several letters were brought to him, one directed in a stiff, careful, unknown hand, bearing the postmark of "Clapham." He tore it open and read—"Come on Saturday at two. 30, Garston Terrace, Towers Road, Islington." These lines were unsigned, and might be meant for any one, as there was no address, yet Glynn never doubted that the lines were meant for him, and were written by Elsie Lambert. At two o'clock! How near and yet how far! little over six hours. How should he get through them? He had work at his office, and must arrange for a free afternoon; that was not difficult; he had not been regularly in harness since his severe illness. Then he must supply himself with money. It was impossible to say what steps might be necessary. He was glad Deering had gone out of town. There seemed a fatality about his connection with Lambert. He always came to the front when there was any stir in the Lambert affair.
At last it was time to go citywards. First, however, he drove to Deering's house and ascertained that he had gone out of town. The morning hours fled away swifter than he had hoped, though he had a hard struggle to attend to the business before him. But he had acquired a good deal of self-mastery in the course of his varied experience, and few of those with whom he came in contact would have guessed that his heart was perpetually repeating the words, "What disclosures await me?"
After a vain attempt to eat, he took the train to King's Cross, and then hailed a cab, desiring the driver to put him down in Towers Road. This proved a long, dusty thoroughfare. Nor did he find Garston Terrace till after many inquiries and walking some distance. It was a little crooked lane, where some exceedingly new houses looked over a field and a few trees. The door was opened by a fresh-colored, countrified-looking old woman, in a beautifully white cap. Glynn was utterly at a loss, he did not know for whom he should inquire. He feared to mention a young lady; he thought of asking if there were rooms to let in the house—of a dozen things for the instant or two, during which they stood gazing at each other. At last the servant or owner of the house said, in a broad accent—
"You'll be the gentleman to see Mr. Smith?"
"I am," returned Glynn, infinitely relieved.