due curiosity. I was content to know that I had fallen in love with
the sweetest little girl I had ever set eyes on."

She pressed his hand and sighed.

"Guy, you're a dear!" she said.

"It was quite sufficient for me," he continued, "that you are what you
are. It is sufficient for me even now. The trouble is that it won't be
sufficient for everybody. You can see that for yourself, dear,
can't you?"

Virginia drew a little away. He fancied that the hand which still rested
in his was growing colder.

"I suppose so," she murmured.

"I am glad you realize that," Guy said earnestly. "Now look here,
Virginia. You saw the line my aunt took. There's no doubt that from a
certain point of view she's right. I wonder whether, under the
circumstances, it would be better"--he hesitated, and looked at her for
a moment--"better--you see what I mean, don't you?"

"I am not quite sure," she said. "Hadn't you better tell me?"

Guy looked at her in surprise.

"Why, that was just what I thought I had done," he declared. "What I
mean is that after all, although for my own sake I wouldn't ask a
question, it might be as well for you to tell my aunt what she wants to
know. It would make things much more comfortable."

"I think you are quite right," Virginia said softly.

Guy stooped and kissed her.

"Dear little lady!" he declared. "I'll go and tell her, and bring her
back."

He found his aunt descending the stairs, but when they reached the
morning-room it was empty. Guy looked around in surprise, and stepped
out into the hall. Jameson hurried up to him.

"The young lady has just gone, sir," he said deferentially. "I called a
hansom for her myself. She seemed rather in a hurry."

Guy stood for a moment motionless.

"Do you happen to remember the address she gave you?" he asked the man.

"I am sorry, your Grace. I did not hear it."

Lady Medlincourt opened the door of the morning-room.

"I think, Guy," she said, "you had better come in and talk to me."

CHAPTER XIV

ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE

It was between half-past four and five o'clock in the morning, and
London for the most part slept. Down in the street below, the roar of
traffic, which hour after hour had grown less and less, had now died
away. Within the building itself every one seemed asleep. Floor after
floor looked exactly the same. The lights along the corridors were
burning dimly. Every door was closed except the door of the
service-room, in which a