nd
misery and death appear to have no part.

To Dorian the tender solemnity of the scene brings no balm. To go
again to town by the night mail--to confront Horace and learn from him
the worst--is his one settled thought, among the multitude of
disordered ones; and upon it he determines to act.

But what if he shall prove innocent, or deny all knowledge of the
affair? What then can clear Dorian in his uncle's eyes? And even
should he acknowledge the fact that he had enticed the girl from her
home, how can it benefit Dorian? He is scarcely the one to defend
himself at another's expense; and to betray Horace to clear himself
would be impossible to him.

He grows bewildered and heart-sick. Reaching home, he orders his
dog-cart to be brought round, and, by taking it a good deal out of his
good gray mare, he manages to catch the evening train to town.

Lord Sartoris, sitting brooding over miserable thoughts in the library
at Hythe, has tidings brought him of his nephew's speedy return to
London, and endures one stab the more, as he feels now more than ever
convinced of his duplicity.

Arrived in town, Branscombe drives to Horace's rooms, hoping against
hope that he may find him at home. To his surprise he does so find
him,--in the midst of papers, and apparently up to his eyes in
business.

"Working so late?" says Dorian, involuntarily, being accustomed to
think of Horace, at this hour, as one of a chosen band brought
together to discuss the lighter topics of the day over soup and fish
and flesh. In truth, now he is on the spot and face to face with his
brother, the enormity of his errand makes itself felt, and he hardly
knows what to say to him.

"You, Dorian?" Horace, raising his eyes, smiles upon him his usual
slow impenetrable smile. "Working? Yes; we others, the moneyless ones,
must work or die; and death is unpopular nowadays. Still, law is dry
work when all is confessed." He presses his hand to his forehead with
affected languor, and for an instant conceals his face. "By the by, it
is rather good of you to break in so unexpectedly upon my monotony.
Anything I can do for you?"

"Let me speak to you," says Dorian, impulsively, laying his hand upon
his arm. "If I am wronging you in my thoughts I shall never forgive
myself, and you, in all probability, will never forgive me either; yet
I must get it off my mind."

"My dear fellow, how you have flung away undoubted talent! Your tone
out-Irvings Irving: it is ul