to see. Not a word upon either side had been spoken
when, some half an hour later, the carriage suddenly stopped, he was
thrust out as strongly and roughly as he had been hustled in; and, as
he stood, dazed by the events of this extraordinary night and the rush
of fresh sweet air, the coachman drove rapidly away.

George Brudenell looked about him like one bereft of reason. He had no
idea of the route by which he had been driven, and it was only after
looking for some time at the houses about him that he discovered where
he was, for he felt as perplexed and confused as though he had been
voyaging through the air in a balloon. Slowly he recognized his
surroundings--he was close upon the confines of Victoria Park. Not a
sound broke the silence, not a form was visible, the dawn was
brightening rosily in the east. He drew out his watch; it was just
three o'clock on Sunday morning.

CHAPTER VII.

It was not to be wondered at that Doctor Brudenell, coming down to
breakfast at the usual time some five hours later, should have looked
what Mrs. Jessop called "as pale as the very table-cloth itself," or
that he should have but little desire either for the meal or his Sunday
paper. The very children, coming in by and by to bid him good-morning
before going to church, loudly expressed their astonishment in a shrill
trio as to Uncle George's funny looks, and rather rebelled at the
unusually curt greeting and dismissal which he gave them. Even the
governess's eyes opened a little wider as she looked at him, but she
gave him her hand with her usual shadowy smile, and expressed no
interest or surprise. Not that she would have learned anything had she
been as concerned as she was indifferent, for George Brudenell,
reflecting upon and recalling his adventure of the night before, fully
realizing his own position, had come to the conclusion to dismiss and
forget it if he could, and to speak of it to no one.

The Doctor was a shrewd man, and, understanding his fellow-men in their
mental as well as their physical natures, knew very well that such a
story, if it were not entirely discredited, would be at any rate
doubted and caviled at. The general opinion would be that there was
some truth in it, but not much. He was a sensitive man, disliking and
dreading ridicule, and he came to the conclusion that no possible good
could result from his publishing the story. He did not know the
men--the street, the house, and the locality wer