The landlady had a son at home, a lad of sixteen.  Having discovered that the boy’s services were available, Egremont gave him directions.  He was to take a cab and drive to the library in Brook Street.  If he should not find Grail there, he was to proceed to Walnut Tree Walk.  If Grail would come back with him, so much the better.

Walter was left to refresh himself after his journey.  He changed his clothes, and presently sat down to a meal.  But appetite by this time failed him.  He had the table cleared ten minutes after it was laid.

He was in the utmost uneasiness.  Could it be Grail who had called?  He tried to assure himself that it must be a mistake.  How could Grail expect him to be in town, after reading that letter from Jersey?  If indeed the visitor were Gilbert, some catastrophe had befallen.  But he would not entertain such a fear.  Then the second caller; that might be any acquaintance.  Still, it was strange that he too had refused his name.

You know the state of mind in which, whatever one thinks of, a pain, a fear, draws the thought another way.  It was so with Egremont.  The two mysterious callers and the annoying scene at the railway station plagued him successively, and for background to them all was a shadow of indefinite apprehension.

He could scarcely endure his impatience.  It seemed as though the messenger would never return.  The lad presented himself, however, without undue delay.  He had found Mr. Grail, he said, at the second address.

‘And whom did you see in Brook Street?’

‘A woman, sir; she said Mr. Grail didn’t live there.’

‘He couldn’t come with you?’

‘No, sir.  But he said he’d come very soon.’

‘Thank you.  That will do.’

So Grail was not at the library.  Then of a certainty something had happened.  Thyrza was ill; perhaps—­

He walked about the room.  That dread physical pain which clutches at all the inner parts when one is waiting in agonised impatience for that which will be misery when it comes, racked him so that at moments he had to lean for support.  He felt how the suffering of the last fortnight, in vain fled from hither and thither, had reduced his strength.  Since he took leave of Thyrza, he had not known one moment of calm.  When passion was merciful for a time, fear had taken its turn to torment him.  It had not availed to demonstrate to himself that fear must be groundless.  Love from of old has had a comrade superstition; if he awoke from a wretched dream, he interpreted it as sympathy with Thyrza in some dreadful trial.  And behold! he had been right.  His flight had profited nothing; woe had come upon her he loved, and upon the man he most desired to befriend.

Half an hour after the return of the messenger, the servant came to the door and said that ‘Mr. Grail’ was below.

‘Yes.  I’ll see him.’

He spoke the words with difficulty.  He advanced to the middle of the room.  Gilbert came in, and the door was closed behind him.