As the last one, with its visionary arms outstretched towards him, receded from him, and disappeared, he thought, “That is Francesca’s spirit, bidding me an eternal adieu”—­and, with the foolish thought, in spite of its foolishness, he shivered and stretched out his arms in return.

“Of a verity,” he then cried, “if nature failed to make me an idiot, I am doing my best to consummate that end, and become one of free choice.  What folly possesses me?  I will dissipate it at once,—­I will see her in bodily shape,—­that will put an end to such fancies,”—­starting up, and beginning to pull on his gloves.

“No! no, that will not do,”—­pulling them off again.  “She will think I am an uneasy ghost that pursues her.  I must wait till this evening, but ah, what an age till evening!”

Fortunately, all ages, even lovers’ ages, have an end.  The evening came; he was at the Fifth Avenue,—­his card sent up,—­his feet impatiently travelling to and fro upon the parlor carpet,—­his heart beating with happiness and expectancy.  A shadow darkened the door; he flew to meet the substance,—­not a sweet face and graceful form, but a servant, big and commonplace, bringing him his own card and the announcement, “The ladies is both out, sir.”

“Impossible! take it up again.”

He said “impossible” because Francesca had that morning told him she would be at home in the evening.

“All right, sir; but it’s no use, for there’s nobody there, I know”; and he vanished for a second attempt, unsuccessful as the first.  Surrey went to the office, still determinedly incredulous.

“Are Mrs. Lancaster and Miss Ercildoune not in?”

“No, sir; both out.  Keys here,”—­showing them.  “Left for one of the five-o’clock trains; rooms not given up; said they would be back in a few days.”

“From what depot did they leave?”

“Don’t know, sir.  They didn’t go in the coach; had a carriage, or I could tell you.”

“But they left a note, perhaps,—­or some message?”

“Nothing at all, sir; not a word, nor a scrap.  Can I serve you in any way further?”

“Thanks! not at all.  Good evening.”

“Good evening, sir.”

That was all.  What did it mean?—­to vanish without a sign! an engagement for the evening, and not a line left in explanation or excuse!  It was not like her.  There must be something wrong, some mystery.  He tormented himself with a thousand fancies and fears over what, he confessed, was probably a mere accident; wisely determined to do so no longer,—­but did, spite of such excellent resolutions and intent.