“Won’t, you sit down, sir,” he said, “The young lady was discharged yesterday, and I can’t tell you where she’s gone, in fact, though I remember her being brought in—­run-over case—­I like to step upstairs and see the sister of the ward she was in, the Alexandra?”

While he was speaking, and Mr. Wordley was trying to recover command of himself, a slim black-clad figure came down the hall, and pausing before the large tin box provided for contributions, dropped something into it.  Mr. Wordley watched her absently; she raised her head, and he sprang forward with “Miss Ida!” on his lips.

Ida uttered a cry and staggered a little; for she was not yet as strong as the girl who used to ride through Herondale, and Mr. Wordley caught her by both hands and supported her.

“Thank God! thank God!” was all he could exclaim for a minute.  “My dear child! my dear Miss Ida!  Sit down!”

He drew her to one of the long benches and sat down beside her.  To his credit, be it stated, that the tears were in his eyes, and for a moment or two he was incapable of speech; indeed, it was Ida who, woman-like, first recovered her self-possession.

“Mr. Wordley!  Is it really you?  How did you know? how did you find me?  I am so glad; oh, so glad!” She choked back the tears that sprang to her eyes and forced a laugh; for again, woman-like, she saw that he was more upset than even she was.  He found his voice after awhile, but it was a very husky one.

“My dear girl, my dear Miss Ida,” he said, “you are not more glad than I. I have been almost out of my mind for the last few hours.  I came to London all in a hurry.  Most important news—­went to your cousin’s—­Oh, Lord! what a fool that man is!  Heard you had run away—­not at all surprised.  Should have run away myself long before you did.  Came up to London in search of you—­just heard you’d gone from here.”

“I ought to have gone yesterday,” said Ida, “but they let me stay.”

“God bless them!” he panted.  “But how pale you look—­and thin.  You’ve been ill, very ill; and you’ve been unhappy, and I didn’t know it.  What a fool I was to let you go!  It was all my fault!  I ought to have known better than to have trusted you to that sanctimonious idiot.  My dear, I’ve great news for you!”

“Have you?” said Ida, patting his hand soothingly—­she had caught something of the gentle, soothing way of the sister and nurses.  “Must you tell me now?  You are tired and upset.”  “I must tell you this very minute or I shall burst,” said Mr. Wordley.  “My dear child, prepare yourself for the most astounding, the most wonderful news.  I don’t want to startle you, but I don’t feel as though I could keep it for another half hour.  Do you think I could have a glass of water?”

The porter, still sympathetic, at a sign from Ida, produced the glass of water and discreetly retired.

“Now,” said Mr. Wordley, with intense gravity, “prepare to be startled.  Be calm, my dear child, as I am; you see I am quite calm!” He was perspiring at every pore, and was mopping his forehead with a huge silk handkerchief.  “I have just made a great discovery.  You are aware that Herondale, the whole estate, is heavily mortgaged, and that there was a foreclosure; that means that the whole of it would have passed away from you.”