Lord Sartoris draws a deep breath, that is almost a sob.

"When does he return, my lord?"

"On Saturday. He said so, at least, when leaving."

"A long time," murmurs the old man, mournfully. "She will be home
before that,--if she ever comes at all." His head sinks upon his
breast. Then he rouses himself, and, glancing at Lord Sartoris, says
entreatingly, "Won't you write to him, my lord? Do, I implore of you,
and conjure him to return. If any one can help me it will be Mr.
Dorian."

"I shall write to him now,--now,--at once," says Sartoris,
mechanically, feeling how hideous is the mockery of this promise,
knowing what he thinks he knows. Even yet he clings to the hope that
he has been mistaken.

Thus he soothes the old man with vain promises, and so gets rid of
him, that he may be left alone with his own thoughts.

Shall he go to Dorian? This is the first engrossing idea. Yet it
affords but little consolation. To see him, to hear him, to listen to
a denial from his lips; that is what it holds out to him, and it is
all insufficient. How shall he believe him, knowing the many things
that have occurred? How treat his very most eager denial as anything
but a falsehood?

For hours he paces to and fro, pondering on what is the best course to
pursue. He is not his father, that he can coerce him. By nature
suspicious (though tender-hearted and indulgent in other ways), it
comes easily to him to believe that even the man in whom he has
trusted has been found wanting.

"To doubt is worse than to have lost," says Massinger; and surely he
is right. Sartoris, in deep perplexity, acknowledges the truth of this
line, and tells himself that in his old age he has been sorely tried.
The whole world seems changed. Sunshine has given place to gloom; and
he himself stands alone,--

"Stoynde and amazde at his own shade for dreed,
And fearing greater daungers than was nede."

Not until he is thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and body, does he
decide on leaving for town by the mid-day train next day.

In the mean time he will telegraph to Claridge's, some faint
remembrance lingering with him of Dorian's having made mention of that
hotel as being all any one's fancy could possibly paint it.

But the morrow brings its own tidings.

It is almost noon, and Sartoris, sitting in his library, writing some
business letters,--preparatory to catching the up train to town,--is
disturbed by a light knock at the door.

"Come in,