"But what do you mean to do?" she asked. "We can't sit here quietly and allow my unhappy husband to roam the country. He must be found, and at once. He—he may have——" Her lips trembled, she lowered her eyes.
"No," I said. "He has not committed suicide. Rest easy on that point. From what you tell me of your husband I feel inclined to think—of course, I may be wrong—but I feel strongly inclined to think that he is at Dover at the present moment."
"What can you possibly mean?"
"What I say. It is quite within the region of probability that he may be at Dover waiting for his friend Walter Leigh to join him."
When I said this Mrs. Mainwaring looked at me as if she thought I, too, had taken leave of my senses. I took no notice of her expressive face.
"I am prepared to go with you to Dover," I said. "Shall we start at once?"
She looked dubious and terribly anxious.
"It seems a waste of time," she said, after a pause.
"I do not think so," I answered. "Your husband was in a weak state, notwithstanding his boasted strength. From what you tell me, he evidently exerted himself more than was wise while at Cambridge. By doing so, he strained a weakened frame. The brain forms the highest part of that frame, Mrs. Mainwaring, the highest and also the most easily put out of order. Your husband exerted his body too much, and excited his brain by old memories and the regrets which must come to a man when he visits the scene of vanished friendships. You say that Mr. Mainwaring was visibly affected when he heard of his great friend's death?"