me on and the lamps in the square had been lit. He let
himself into the house by his latch-key. He walked into all the rooms
and up into Sheila's room: everything remained as he had left it. The
white cloth glimmered in the dusk of the dining-room, and the light of
the lamp outside in the street touched here and there the angles of the
crystal and showed the pale colors of the glasses. The clock on the
mantelpiece ticked in the silence. If Sheila had been lying dead in that
small room up stairs, the house could not have appeared more silent and
solemn.

He could not bear this horrible solitude. He called one of the servants
and left a message for Sheila, if she came in in the interval, that he
would be back at ten o'clock: then he went out, got into a hansom and
drove down to his club in St. James's street.

Most of the men were dining: the other rooms were almost deserted. He
did not care to dine just then. He went into the library: it was
occupied by an old gentleman who was fast asleep in an easy-chair. He
went into the billiard-rooms, in the vague hope that some exciting game
might be going on: there was not a soul in the place, the gases were
down, and an odor of stale smoke pervaded the dismal chambers. Should he
go to the theatre? His sitting there would be a mockery while this vague
and terrible fear was present to his heart. Or go down to see Ingram,
as had been his wont in previous hours of trouble? He dared not go near
Ingram without some more definite news about Sheila. In the end he went
out into the open air, as if he were in danger of being stifled, and,
walking indeterminately on, found himself once more at his own house.

The place was still quite dark: he knew before entering that Sheila had
not returned, and he did not seem to be surprised. It was now long after
their ordinary dinner-hour. When he went into the house he bade the
servants light the gas and bring up dinner: he would himself sit down at
this solitary table, if only for the purpose of finding occupation and
passing this terrible time of suspense.

It never occurred to him, as it might have occurred to him at one time,
that Sheila had made some blunder somewhere and been unavoidably
detained. He did not think of any possible repetition of her adventures
in Richmond Park. He was too conscious of the probable reason of
Sheila's remaining away from her own home; and yet from minute to minute
he fought with that consciousness, and sought to