That evening Miriam had an engagement to dine out, together with the Spences.  When she reached home, Eleanor, dressed ready for departure and not a little impatient, met her in the entrance-hall.

“Have you forgotten?”

“No.  I am very sorry that I couldn’t get back sooner.  What is the time?”

It was too late for Miriam to dress and reach her destination at the appointed hour.

“You must go without me.  I hope it doesn’t matter.  They are not the kind of people who plan for their guests to go like the animals of Noah’s ark.”

This was a sally of unwonted liveliness from Miriam. and it did not suit very well with her jaded face.

“Will you come after dinner?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes, I will.  Make some excuse for me.”

So Miriam dined alone, or made a pretence of doing so, and at nine o’clock joined her friends.  Through the evening she talked far more freely than usual, and with a frequency of caustic remark which made one or two mild ladies rather afraid of her.

At half-past nine next morning, when she and Eleanor were talking over a letter Mrs. Spence had just received from Greece, a servant came into the drawing-room to say that Mr. Elgar wished to speak with Mrs. Baske.  The ladies looked at each other; then Miriam directed that the visitor should go up to her own sitting-room.

“This has something to do with Cecily,” said Eleanor in a low voice.

“Probably.”

And Miriam turned away.

As she entered her room, Reuben faced her, standing close by.  He looked miserably ill, the wreck of a man compared with what he had been at his last visit.  When the door was shut, he asked without preface, and in an anxious tone: 

“Can you tell me where Cecily is?”

Miriam laid her band on a chair, and met his gaze.

“Where she is?”

“She isn’t at home.  Haven’t you heard of her?”

“Since when has she been away?”

Her manner of questioning seemed to Elgar to prove that her own surprise was as great as his.

“I only went there last night,” he said, “about eleven o’clock.  She had been in the house since her arrival the day before yesterday; but in the afternoon she went out and didn’t return.  She left no word, and there’s nothing from her this morning.  I thought it likely you had heard something.”

“I have heard many things, but not about her.”

“Of course, I know that!” he exclaimed impatiently, averting his eyes for a moment.  “I haven’t come to talk, but to ask you a simple question.  You have no idea where she is?”

Miriam moved a few steps away and seated herself.  But almost at once she arose again.

“Why didn’t you go home before last night?” she asked harshly.

“I tell you, I am not going to talk of my affairs,” he answered, with a burst of passion.  “If you want to drive me mad—!  Can’t you answer me?  Do you know anything, or guess anything, about her?”