’Thank you, I’d rather not.  It’s not my business.  If I was you, I’d speak to Mr. Ackroyd.  I know nothing about Thyrza.’

‘To Mr. Ackroyd?’ exclaimed Lydia.  ’But I’m sure she won’t see him.  It’s you’ll hear from her, if anybody does.  Can’t you think of any place she’d be likely to go?  Hasn’t she never said anything in talking?  You wouldn’t keep it back, just because you don’t like me?  It’s my sister—­she’s all I have; you know she can’t look out for herself like you and me could.  And she’s been ill since Monday.  Won’t you help me if you can, just because I’m in trouble?’

‘I’d help you if I could,’ replied the other, not unmoved by the appeal, but still distant.  ’I’m quite sure Thyrza won’t let me know where she is.  If you take my advice you’ll see Mr. Ackroyd.’

In her agitation Lydia could not reflect upon the complicated details of the case.  She never doubted that Totty knew the truth; in this, we know, Luke had unintentionally deceived her.  Perhaps the advice to consult Ackroyd was good; perhaps he had learned something more since Wednesday night, something that Totty also knew but did not care to communicate herself.

‘I’ll try and find him,’ Lydia said.  ’But if you do hear any thing you wouldn’t keep it from me?’

‘You’ll hear just as soon as I do,’ was the reply.

Lydia turned away, feeling that the girl’s coldness was a cruelty, wondering at it.  She herself could not have behaved so to one in dire need.

She was going away, but Totty stopped her.

‘You can’t go back like that, in the rain.  Take my umbrella.’

‘What do I care for the rain!’ Lydia cried.  ’I must find Thyrza.  I thought you pretended to be her friend.’

She hastened into the street.  Not many yards from the door she met the man she desired to see.  Ackroyd was coming to ask for Totty, for the first time since Tuesday night.  Lydia drew him to the opposite side of the way, and hurriedly told him, showing him the scrap of paper.

‘I’ve been to Totty,’ she added.  ’She didn’t seem to wish to help me; she spoke as if she didn’t care, and said I’d better ask you.  Do you know anything more?’

He was mute at first.  His mind naturally turned to one thought.  Then he said, speaking slowly: 

’I know nothing more, except that lots of people have heard Bower’s story.  Does Grail know?’

‘Not unless he has heard since this morning.’

’I haven’t seen much of him to-day, but I noticed he looked very queer.’

’That’s because Thyrza asked him to put off the wedding for a week.  I never thought she’d leave me.  We talked about everything that night after I left you.  I pretended I’d found it out myself; I durstn’t let her know that other people had noticed anything.  She had a dreadful night, but she seemed better since.’

‘And did she tell you—­everything?’

’Everything!  She said he’d never spoken a word to her that he shouldn’t.  I’m sure it was the truth; Thyrza wouldn’t have deceived me like that.  He’s gone away, somewhere out of London.’