isappointment that she is not there. The conviction that she is dead
presses its cold weight upon him none the less heavily.

As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw Mr. Bates,
with a group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful search
which could only displace his vague despair by a definite horror; for the
gardener, in his restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this until
other means of search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with
sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel under the
sombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered hope
and joy of Maynard Gilfil's life.

Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself were
crowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters were all closed in front of
the Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware of
anything that was passing outside; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina's
disappearance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner's inquest
would be held shortly; she would be inquired for, and then it would be
inevitable that the Baronet should know all.

Chapter 18

At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the
coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the
hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must
otherwise have it discovered to him abruptly.

The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark
window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the
first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he
was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fine
old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his
complexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen ridge under his
eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the
present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a
sense, but a memory.

He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him
in silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspoken
sympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his
cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He
could not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something
which might lead on to