Mr. Wordley, however, appeared to be quite cheerful.  He shook hands with both of them, and enquired after their health and that of their family quite amiably and pleasantly.

“Most delightful weather, isn’t it?” he remarked.  “Quite pleasant travelling.  You have a remarkably—­or—­convenient house, Mrs. Heron:  charming suburb:  will no doubt be quite gay and fashionable when it is—­er—­more fully developed.  You are looking well, Mr. Heron.”

Mr. Heron, whatever he may have looked, was feeling anything but well at that moment; for he suspected than the lawyer was only masking his attack, and that he meant to spring upon him presently.

“I enjoy fairly good health, Mr. Wordley, thank you,” he said, in his sanctimonious way; “but I have my share of trials and anxieties in this miserable world.”

“Oh, don’t call it miserable, on a morning like this!” said Mr. Wordley, cheerfully.  “My dear sir, there is nothing the matter with the world; it’s—­er—­some of the people in it that try to make it miserable.”

While he had been speaking, he had been glancing at the door and listening, as if he had been listening and expecting to hear and see someone else.

“The fact is,” he said, “I have come up rather suddenly on rather important business:  came up without a moment’s delay. Where is Miss Ida?  I should like to see her at once, please, if I may!”

The faces of the pair grew sallow, and the corners of John Heron’s mouth dropped lower even than usual.

“Ida?” he said, in a hollow voice, as if he were confused.  “Where is she?  Surely you know, Mr. Wordley?”

“I know?  How should I know?  I came up to see her:  not a moment to spare.  Isn’t she here?  Why do you both stare at me like this?”

“She is not here,” said John Heron.  “Ida left our house more than a fortnight ago.”

Mr. Wordley looked disappointed, and grunted: 

“Oh, gone to stay with some friends, I suppose.  I’ll trouble you to give me their address, Mr. Heron, please.”

He rose, as he spoke, as if he meant starting on the moment, but he sank into the chair again as John Heron said in a sepulchral voice: 

“I should most willingly do so, Mr. Wordley, but I regret to say I do not know where she is.”

“You—­don’t—­know—­where—­she is!” said Mr. Wordley, anger and amazement struggling for the upper hand.  “What the devil I beg your pardon, Mrs. Heron!  You must excuse an old man with a short temper and a touch of the gout—­but I don’t understand you!  Why don’t you know?”

Mrs. Heron began to sniff, and her worthy husband drew himself up and tried to look dignified, and failed utterly in the attempt.

“Such language—­” he began.

“Confound my language, sir!” snapped the old lawyer, his face growing red.  “Be good enough to answer my question!”

“Ida left our hospitable roof about a fortnight ago,” said Mr. Heron.  “She left like a thief in the night—­that is to say, morning.  I regret to say that she left no message, no word of farewell, behind her.  I had occasion to rebuke her on the preceding night, and, following the dictates of an ungodly nature and a perverse pride, she chose to leave the shelter of this roof—­”