“But if he had been detained like that, he would surely have written to you,” said Marian; “and you have heard nothing from him since he left England.”

“Unhappily nothing.  But he is not the best correspondent in the world, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know that.  Yet, in such a case as this, he would surely have written, if he were well.”  Her eyes met Gilbert’s as she said this.  She stopped abruptly, dismayed by something in his face.

“You are hiding some misfortune from me,” she cried; “I can see it in your face.  You have had bad news of him.”

“Upon my honour, no.  He was not in very strong health when he left England, that is all; and, like yourself, I am naturally anxious.”

He had not meant to admit even as much as this just yet; but having said this, he found himself compelled to say more.  Marian questioned him so closely, that she finally extorted from him the whole history of John Saltram’s illness.  After that it was quite in vain to attempt consolation.  She was very gentle, very patient, troubling him with no vain wailings and lamentations; but he could see that her heart was almost broken.

He left her at the end of a few hours to return to London, promising to go on to Liverpool next day, in order to be on the spot to await her husband’s return, and to send her the earliest possible tidings of it.

“Your friendship for us has given you nothing but trouble and pain,” she said; “but if you will do this for me, I shall be grateful to you for the rest of my life.”

There was no occasion for that journey to Liverpool.  When he arrived in London that night, Gilbert Fenton found a letter waiting for him at his Wigmore-street lodgings—­a letter with the New York post-mark, but not addressed in his friend’s hand.  He tore it open hurriedly, just a little alarmed by this fact.

His first feeling was one of relief.  There were three separate sheets of paper in the envelope, and the first which he took up was in John Saltram’s hand—­a hurried eager letter, dated some weeks before.

“My dear Gilbert,” he wrote, “I have been duped.  This man Nowell is a most consummate scoundrel.  The woman with him is not Marian, but some girl whom he has picked up to represent her—­his wife perhaps, or something worse.  I was very ill on the passage out, and only discovered the trick at the last.  Since then I have traced the scoundrel to his quarters, and have had an interview with him—­rather a stormy one, as you may suppose.  But the long and short of it is that he defies me.  He tells me that my wife is in England, and safe, but will admit no more.  I have consulted a lawyer here, but it seems I can do nothing against him—­or nothing that will not involve a more complicated and protracted business than I have time or patience for.  I don’t want this wretch to go scot-free.  It is evident that he has hatched this plot in order to get possession of his daughter’s money, and I have little doubt the lawyer Medler is in it.  But of course my first duty, as well as my most ardent desire, is to find Marian; and for this purpose I shall come back to England by the first steamer that will convey me, leaving Mr. Nowell’s punishment to the chances of the future.  My dear girl’s property, as well as herself, will be best protected by my presence in England.”