It was the first great shock that Forster had ever felt during a life of quiet activity, marked from time to time by small and frequently ignoble troubles; and it struck him like a thunderbolt—to use the familiar but terribly expressive simile. When he came to himself, he was like a man mentally stupefied and physically decrepit. He read the letter over and over again, and wept over it; and the more he read it, the less he understood its true meaning. Only one thing was clear—that Madeline had left his house of her own freewill, with no intention of returning, and with no hint of any reason for her flight.

Despite his sister’s entreaties, he himself left the house in search of the fugitive. It was now long past midnight, and the rain was still falling heavily; but he buttoned his greatcoat round him, and rushed out into the street.

His first inquiries were of the policemen in the neighbourhood, but they could tell him nothing. He hastened then to the nearest cabstand, thinking that possibly Madeline might have hired a vehicle there; but he gained no information. Then he stood helpless under the dark sky, in the midst of the great city, uncertain which way to turn.

For he had not the slightest clue to guide him in his search. Madeline had no friends in the city to whom she might fly; none, certainly to his knowledge, and White himself had told him that she was a friendless orphan. The thought of White, however, brought up the recollection of Madame de Berny, who had been keeping house for White when he died, and who was still, thanks to Forster’s assistance, in possession of the old quarters, which she let in lodgings. It was just possible Madeline might have gone there.

The thought was enough. He hailed a hansom, and was driven rapidly to St. John’s Wood.

He was doomed to disappointment. When he had aroused the sleeping house, and scared Madame de Berny out of her wits by the sight of his haggard, spectral face, he found that the poor soul knew nothing. He hurried away with scarcely a word of explanation.

All that night he haunted the streets, seeking for a trace of any kind. Of course, it was in vain.

Long after daybreak he returned to his lonely house and found his sister awaiting him in deep anxiety.

She saw by one glance at his face that he had been unsuccessful. He walked into the study, threw himself into a chair; she followed him, and touched him softly on the shoulder. He looked up wildly, like a man whose wits are going.

‘You have heard nothing?’ she asked.

He shook his head in despair.

‘I feared you would not,’ she continued. ‘My dear James, you must have courage—you must look this terrible event in the face. May I speak to you? Do you think you can bear to talk of it, of her?’

‘What have you to say?’

His tone was irritable, almost querulous.

‘Only this, James—that you must not torture yourself unnecessarily. Remember there are others who love you—myself—your darling boy. If Madeline has left you, it is of her own freewill. I am not surprised that you have not found her; she doubtless provided well against that. She wished to leave you! Don’t forget that!’

‘Why should she wish it?’ he groaned.

‘Why do other wives leave their husbands? They do leave them, every day.’

There was something in her tone so significant, so ominous, that he could not misconceive her. He sprang up as if stung and faced her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I never thought Madeline quite happy in this house. I never thought she loved you as you deserved. If she is unworthy to bear your name——’

‘She is not unworthy! I will never believe it. I will not hear one word against her, even from you. Do you hear? not one word! I know you never cared for her, never treated her like a sister, and now you would poison my soul against her. I tell you I will not listen to you—never, never!’

Margaret Forster felt not a little indignant; her brow darkened, and the sympathetic dimness passed away from her cold grey eyes; but being truly mistress of the situation, she could afford to be, and was, magnanimous.

‘You are very unjust to me,’ she said, ‘but I shall think it is your trouble that speaks, and not yourself I have never been unkind to Madeline; on the contrary, I have treated her with the greatest affection and respect. If I have sometimes thought that she was scarcely conscious of the duties of a lady in her position, I have always silenced myself with the reflection that she was your choice. Yes, James, always No matter what I have feared, what I have seen, I have been silent for your sake.’

‘In the name of God,’ said Forster, impatiently, ‘cease to torture me. If you know anything to relieve my suspense, speak out. If not, leave me, leave me!’

As he spoke he sank again into his chair, hiding his face in his hands. She watched him for some moments in silence, sighing heavily and occasionally wiping her eyes, for she was genuinely affected; but with the firmness of a skilled surgeon, who sympathises with the patient whom it is impossible to spare, since a cruel operation is imperative, she at length spoke again.

‘You will hear sad truths sooner or later, James; it is better that you should hear them first from me. I want you to understand, once for all, that it is useless to waste your strength, to break your heart, over what is irrecoverable.’

‘Do you mean Madeline? I tell you I will find her. If I search the whole world I will find her.’

‘And if you do, what then?’

‘I will pray to her on my knees to return.’

‘Whether she is worthy or unworthy?’

‘Margaret, take care! I won’t hear one whisper against her.’

Margaret’s lips tightened, and her surgical manner increased.

‘If you will not listen to me,’ she said, ‘at least attend to what the world says. These papers were sent, under cover, to me, this morning. It is my duty, James, to bring them to your attention.’

So saying, she handed to him copies of the ‘Plain Speaker’ and the ‘Whirligig’; they had indeed been sent to her by an anonymous correspondent, who had taken the trouble to mark the obnoxious paragraphs very carefully in red ink.

Forster looked at them, and seemed to read them in a dazed, stupefied sort of way; and as he did so shudder after shudder ran through his frame. But he evinced less surprise than his sister had anticipated.

‘Of course, James, you understand these allusions? Do they refer in any way to your wife? In any case, can you explain them?’

‘Yes! he answered, looking up into her eyes.

‘They refer to Madeline?9

‘I believe so,’ he answered, rising; ‘and now—oh,

God!—I begin to see what has driven my darling away. She feared some infamous persecution; she dreaded these infernal slanders; she read these very words. But I will follow her. I will tell her——’

‘James, dear James, listen to me!’

‘Well, well!’

‘Are these insinuations true? Is there any foundation for the statement that—that when you married Madeline there was something dreadful, of which you knew nothing, in her past life?’

‘It is a lie!’ cried Forster, with strange energy. ‘She never deceived me—she is incapable of deceit—she is a martyr! Do you think that I doubt her? If you dream so, you little know either of us. She deceived me in nothing.’

‘But there was some scandal, and you heard of it?’

‘Whatever there was, I knew, answered Forster, firmly; ‘but I will not discuss it—it is sacrilege!’

He made a movement as if to leave the room, but Margaret, who had not yet applied the knife to her own satisfaction, again restrained him.

‘Are you sure you knew everything?’ she demanded sadly. ‘Everything, I mean, before your marriage—and after?’

He turned eagerly and looked at her, for he saw, by her to............