rian, stupidly. "What
brought you home so soon? or, rather, what took you to Paris
originally?"

"Business partly, and partly because--er--that is, I felt I needed a
little change."

"Ah! just so," says Branscombe. But he answers as one might who has
heard nothing. Sir James casts upon him a quick penetrating glance.

"Anything wrong with you, Branscombe?" he asks, quietly. "Anything in
which I can be of use to you?"

"Thank you, no. I'm just a little down on my luck, that's all." Then,
abruptly, "I suppose you have heard of the scandal down in
Pullingham?"

"About that poor little girl?" says Sir James. "Oh, yes. 'Ill news
flies apace;' and this morning Hodges, who came to town to see me
about Bennett's farm, gave me a garbled account of her disappearance.
I think I hardly understand even now. How did it happen?"

For a full minute Dorian makes no reply. He is looking earnestly in
James Scrope's face, to see if in it there lurks any hidden thought,
any carefully concealed expression of mistrust. There is, indeed,
none. No shadow, no faintest trace of suspicion, lies in Scrope's
clear and honest eyes. Branscombe draws a deep breath. Whatever in the
future this friend may come to believe, now, at least, he holds
him--Dorian--clear and pure from this gross evil that has been imputed
to him.

He throws up his head with a freer air, and tries, with a quick
effort, to conquer the morbid feeling that for hours past has been
pressing upon him heavily.

"I know nothing," he says, presently, in answer to Sir James's last
remark.

"It is such an unaccountable story," says Scrope, lifting his brows.
"Where did she go? and with whom? Such a quiet little mouse of a girl,
one hardly understands her being the heroine of a tragedy. But how
does it particularly affect you?"

Branscombe hesitates. For one brief moment he wonders whether he shall
or shall not reveal to Scrope the scene that has passed between him
and his uncle. Then his whole sympathies revolt from the task, and he
determines to let things rest as they now are.

"Arthur has tormented himself needlessly about the whole business," he
says, turning his face from Scrope. "He thinks me--that is, every
one--to blame, until the girl is restored to her father."

"Ah! I quite see," says James Scrope.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even."

"Dorian?" says Clarissa.

"Clarissa!" says Dorian.

"I reall