What did it mean?  Was Marks delaying for some definite reason?  Or had he misrepresented his motives?  Was it a private enmity he had planned to gratify—­now frustrated by the default of his instrument?

He had given Marks an address in Bristol, that of a shop at which letters were received.  Possibly some communication awaited him there.  He hastened to Paddington and took the first westward train.

On inquiry next morning, he found he had had his journey for nothing.  As he might have anticipated, Marks was too cautious a man to have recourse to writing.

There were still two days before the poll at Polterham.  Thither he must return, that was certain; for if the election passed without startling events, he would again be in a position to catch Quarrier by the throat.

To be sure, there was the promise of assistance in a commercial career, but his indulgence of the last day or two had inclined him to prefer sums of ready money.  Once elected, Quarrier would not submit to social disgrace for the sake of a thousand pounds—­nor for two thousand—­possibly not for five.  Cupidity had taken hold upon Northway.  With a few thousands in his pocket, he might aim at something more to his taste than a life of trading.  Five thousand it should be, not a penny less!  This time he was not to be fobbed off with bluster and posturing.

He spent the day in Bristol, and at nightfall journeyed towards Polterham.

No; even yet nothing had happened.  Conversation at an inn to which he betook himself assured him that things were going their orderly way.  Had Marks himself been bought off?

The next day—­that before the election—­he wandered about the town and its vicinity, undetermined how to act, thinking on the whole that he had better do nothing till after the morrow.  Twice, morning and afternoon, did he view Mrs. Wade’s cottage from a distance.  Just after sunset he was once more in that neighbourhood, and this time with a purpose.

At that hour Mrs. Wade and her guest were together in the sitting-room.  The lamp had just been lighted, the red blind drawn down.  Lilian reclined on a couch; she looked worse in health than when she had taken leave of Denzil; her eyes told of fever, and her limbs were relaxed.  Last night she had not enjoyed an hour of sleep; the strange room and the recollection of Northway’s visit to this house (Quarrier, in his faith that Mrs. Wade’s companionship was best for Lilian, had taken no account of the disagreeable association) kept her nerves in torment, and with the morning she had begun to suffer from a racking headache.

Mrs. Wade was talking, seated by the table, on which her arms rested.  She, too, had a look of nervous tension. and her voice was slightly hoarse.