But Phoebe?  If Carrie was in England, so was Phoebe.  He could not believe that she would part with the child.  And supposing Carrie spoke of the prating, haranguing fellow she had seen?—­mentioned the name, which the stage-manager had given her?—­what then?  Could Phoebe still have the cruelty, the wickedness to maintain her course of action—­to keep Carrie from him?  Ah! if he had been guilty towards her in the old days, she had wrung out full payment long ago; the balance of injury had long since dropped heavily on his side.  But who could know how she had developed?—­whether towards hardness or towards repentance.  Still—­to-night, probably—­she would hear what and whom Carrie had seen.  Any post might bring the fruits of it.  And if not—­he was not without a clue.  If a girl whose name is known has been playing recently at an English provincial theatre, it ought to be possible somehow to recover news of her.  He looked at his watch.  Too late for the lawyers.  But he roused himself, hailed a cab, and went to his club, where he wrote at length to his solicitor, describing what had happened, and suggesting various lines of action.

Then he went home, got some charcoal and paper and by lamp-light began to draw the face which he had seen—­a very young and still plastic face, with delicate lips open above the small teeth; and eyes—­why, they were Phoebe’s eyes, of course!—­no other eyes like them in the world.  He drew them with an eager hand, knowing the way of them.  He put the light—­the smile—­into them; a happy smile!—­as of one to whom life has been kind.  No sign of fear, distress, or cringing poverty—­rather an innocent sovereignty, lovely and unashamed.  Then the brow, and the curly hair in its brown profusion; and the small neck; and the thin, straight shoulders.  He drew in the curve of the shady hat—­the knot of lace at the throat—­the spare young lines of the breast.

So it emerged; and when it was done, he put it on an easel and sat staring at it, his eyes blind with tears.

Yes, it was Carrie—­he had no doubt whatever that it was Carrie.  And behind her, mingling with her image—­yet distinct—­a veiled, intangible presence, stood Phoebe—­Phoebe so like her, and yet so different.  But of Phoebe—­still—­he would not think.  It was as when a man, mortally tired, shrinks from some fierce contest of brain and limb, which yet he knows may some day have to be faced.  He put his wife aside, and sank himself in the covetous, devouring vision of his child.

Next day there was great activity among the lawyers.  They were confident of recovering the clue, and if Fenwick’s identification was a just one, the search was near its end.

Only, till they really were on the track, better say nothing to Lord Findon and Madame de Pastourelles.  This was the suggestion of the Findon’s solicitor, and Fenwick eagerly endorsed it.