He hailed a hansom as he spoke.

‘That’s not a difficulty that applies to me,’ said Fenwick, shortly.

Cuningham stared—­frowned—­and remembered.

’Oh, my dear fellow—­what a mistake that was!—­if you’ll let me say so.  Can’t we put it right?  Command me at any time.’

‘Thank you.  I prefer it as it is.’

‘We’ll talk it over.  Well, good-bye.  Don’t forget old Dick.’

Fenwick walked on, fuming.  Cuningham, he said to himself, was now the type of busy, pretentious mediocrity, the type which eternally keeps English art below the level of the Continent.

‘I say—­one moment!  Have you had any news of the Findons lately?’

Fenwick turned sharply, and again saw Cuningham, whose hansom had been blocked by the traffic, close to the pavement.  He was hanging over the door, and smiling.

In reply to the question, Fenwick merely shook his head.

‘I had a capital letter from her ladyship a week or two ago,’ said Cuningham, raising his voice, and bringing himself as near to Fenwick as his position allowed.  ’The old fellow seems to be as fit as ever.  But Madame de Pastourelles must be very much changed.’

Fenwick said nothing.  It might have been thought that the traffic prevented his hearing Cuningham’s remark.  But he had heard distinctly.

‘Do you know when they’ll be home?’ he asked, reluctantly, walking beside the hansom.

’No—­haven’t an idea.  I believe I’m to go to them for Easter.  Ah!—­now we go on.  Ta-ta!’

He waved his hand, and the hansom moved away.

Fenwick pursued his walk plunged in disagreeable thought.  ’Much changed?’ What did that mean?  He had noticed no such change before the Findons left London.  The words fell like a fresh blow upon a wound.

He turned north, toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, called at the offices of Messrs. Butlin & Forbes, the well-known solicitors, and remained there half an hour.  When he emerged from the old house, he looked, if possible, more harried and cast down than when he had entered it.

They had had a letter to show him, but in his opinion it contributed nothing.  There was no hope—­and no clue!  How could there be?  He had never himself imagined for a moment that any gain would come of these new researches.  But he had been allowed no option with regard to them.  Immediately after his return to London from Versailles he had received a stern letter from Lord Findon, insisting—­as his daughter had already done—­that the only reparation he, Fenwick, could make to the friends he had so long and cruelly deceived, was to allow them a free hand in a fresh attempt to discover his wife, and so to clear Madame de Pastourelles from the ridiculous suspicions that Mrs. Fenwick had been led so disastrously to entertain.  ’Most shamefully and indefensibly my daughter has been made to feel herself an accomplice in Mrs. Fenwick’s disappearance,’ wrote Lord Findon; ’the only amends you can ever make for your conduct will lie in new and vigorous efforts, even at this late hour, to find and to undeceive your wife.’