The quality which from time immemorial has made the public men of England what they are, tempted so many lawyers into Parliament, caused so many divines to put up with being bishops, floated so many financiers, saved so many politicians from taking thought for the morrow, and so many judges from the pangs of remorse, was present in Eustace Dornford to no small degree. Put more shortly, he had an excellent digestion; could eat and drink at all times without knowing anything about it afterwards. He was an indefatigably hard worker even at play; and there was in him just that added fund of nervous energy which differentiates the man who wins the long jump from the man who loses it. And now, though his practice was going up by leaps and bounds since, two years ago, he had taken silk, he had stood for Parliament. And yet he was the last sort of man to incur the epithet ‘go-getter.’ His pale-brown, hazel-eyed, well-featured face had a considerate, even a sensitive look, and a pleasant smile. He had kept a little fine dark moustache, and his wig had not yet depleted his natural hair, which was dark and of rather curly texture. After Oxford he had eaten dinners and gone into the Chambers of a well-known Common Law Junior. Being a subaltern in the Shropshire Yeomanry when the war broke out, he had passed into the Cavalry, and not long after into the trenches, where he had known better luck than most people. His rise at the Bar after the war had been rapid. Solicitors liked him. He never fell foul of judges, and as a cross-examiner stood out, because he almost seemed to regret the points he scored. He was a Roman Catholic, from breeding rather than observance. Finally, he was fastidious in matters of sex, and his presence at a dinner-table on circuit had, if not a silencing, at least a moderating effect on tongues.

He occupied in Harcourt Buildings a commodious set of chambers designed for life as well as learning. Early every morning, wet or fine, he went for a ride in the Row, having already done at least two hours’ work on his cases. By ten o’clock, bathed, breakfasted, and acquainted with the morning’s news, he was ready for the Courts. When at four those Courts rose, he was busy again till half-past six on his cases. The evenings, hitherto free, would now be spent at the House: and since it would be seldom that he could go to bed without working an hour or so on some case or other, his sleep was likely to be curtailed from six hours to five, or even four.

The arrangement come to with Clare was simple. She arrived at a quarter to ten, opened his correspondence, and took his instructions from ten to a quarter past. She remained to do what was necessary, and came again at six o’clock, ready for anything fresh or left over.

On the evening after that last described, at the hour of eight-fifteen, he entered the drawing-room in Mount Street, was greeted, and introduced to Adrian, who had again been bidden. Discussing the state of the pound and other grave matters, they waited, till Lady Mont said suddenly: “Soup. What have you done with Clare, Mr. Dornford?”

His eyes, which had hitherto taken in little but Dinny, regarded his hostess with a faint surprise.

“She left the Temple at half-past six, saying we should meet again.”

“Then,” said Lady Mont, “we’ll go down.”

There followed one of those discomfortable hours well known to well-bred people, when four of them are anxious upon a subject which they must not broach to the fifth, and the fifth becomes aware of this anxiety.

They were, indeed, too few for the occasion, for all that each one of them said could be heard by the others. It was impossible for Eustace Dornford to be confidential with either of his neighbours; and since he instinctively felt that without a preliminary confidence he would only put his foot into it, he was careful to be public-minded and keep to such topics as the Premier, the undiscovered identity of certain poisoners, the ventilation of the House of Commons, the difficulty of knowing exactly what to do with one’s hat there, and other subjects of general interest. But, by the end of dinner he was so acutely aware that they were burning to say things he mustn’t hear, that he invented a professional telephone call, and was taken out of the room by Blore.

The moment he had gone Dinny said:

“She must have been waylaid, Auntie. Could I be excused and go and see?”

Sir Lawrence answered:

“Better wait till we break, Dinny; a few minutes can’t matter now.”

“Don’t you think,” said Adrian, “that Dornford ought to know how things stand? She goes to him every day.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Sir Lawrence.

“No,” said Lady Mont. “Dinny must tell him. Wait for him here, Dinny. We’ll go up.”

Thus it was that, returning to the dining-room after his trunk-call to someone whom he knew to be away from home, Dornford found Dinny waiting. She handed him the cigars and said:

“Forgive us, Mr. Dornford. It’s about my sister. Please light up, and here’s coffee. Blore, would you mind getting me a taxi?”

When they had drunk their coffee, and were standing together by the fire, she turned her face to it and went on hurriedly:

“You see, Clare has split from her husband, and he’s just come over to take her back. She won’t go, and it’s rather a difficult time for her.”

Dornford made a considerate sound.

“I’m very glad you told me. I’ve been feeling unhappy all dinner.”

“I must go now, I’m afraid, and find out what’s happened.”

“Could I come with you?”

“Oh! thank you, but—”

“It would be a real pleasure.”

Dinny stood hesitating. He looked like a present help in trouble; but she said: “Thank you, but perhaps my sister wouldn’t like it.”

“I see. Any time I can help, please let me know.”

“Your taxi’s at the door, Miss.”

“Some day,” she said, “I’d like to ask you about divorce.”

In the taxi she wondered what she would do if she could not get in; and then what she would do if she could get in and Corven were there. She stopped the cab at the corner of the Mews.

“Stay here, please, I’ll let you know in a minute if I want you again.”

Dark and private loomed that little backwater.

‘Like one’s life,’ thought Dinny, and pulled at the ornamental bell. It tinkled all forlorn, and nothing happened. Again and again she rang, then moved backward to look up at the windows. The curtains—she remembered they were heavy—had been drawn close; she could not decide whether or no there was light behind them. Once more she rang and used the knocker, holding her breath to listen. No sound at all! At last, baffled and disquiet, she went back to the cab. Clare had said Corven was staying at the Bristol, and she gave that address. There might be a dozen explanations; only why, in a town of telephones, had Clare not let them know? Half-past ten! Perhaps she had by now!

The cab drew up at the hotel. “Wait, please!” Entering its discreetly gilded hall, she stood for a moment at a loss. The setting seemed unsuitable for private trouble.

“Yes, madam?” said a page-boy’s voice.

“Could you find out for me, please, if my brother-inlaw, Sir Gerald Corven, is in the hotel?”

What should she say if they brought him to her? Her figure in its evening cloak was reflected in a mirror, and that it was straight filled her with a sort of surprise—she felt so as if she were curling and creeping this way and that. But they did not bring him to her. He was not in his room, nor in any of the public rooms. She went out again to her cab.

“Back to Mount Street, please.”

Dornford and Adrian were gone, her Aunt and Uncle playing piquet.

“Well, Dinny?”

“I couldn’t get into her rooms, and he was not in his hotel.”

“You went there?”

“It was all I could think of to do.”