Mallard, when he had taken leave of Cecily by Regent’s Park, set out to walk homewards.  He was heavy-hearted, and occasionally a fit of savage feeling against Elgar took hold of him, but his mood remained that of one who watches life’s drama from a point of vantage.  Sitting close by Cecily’s side, he had been made only more conscious of their real remoteness from each other—­of his inability to give her any kind of help.  He wished she had not come to him, for he saw she had hoped to meet with warmer sympathy, and perhaps she was now more than ever oppressed with the sense of abandonment.  And yet such a result might have its good; it might teach her that she must look for support to no one but herself.  Useless to lament the necessity; fate had brought her to the hardest pass that woman can suffer, and she must make of her life what she could.  It was not the kind of distress that a friend can remedy; though she perished, he could do nothing but stand by and sorrow.

Coming to his own neighbourhood, he did not go straight to the studio, but turned aside to the Spences’ house.  He had no intention of letting his friends know of Cecily’s visit, but he wished to ask whether they had any news of Elgar.  No one was at home, however.

The next morning, when surprised by the appearance of Elgar himself, he was on the point of again going to the Spences’.  The interview over, he met forth, and found Eleanor alone.  She had just learnt from Miriam what news Reuben had brought, and on Mallard’s entrance she at once repeated this to him.

“I knew it,” replied the artist.  “The fellow has been with me.”

“He ventured to come?  Before or after his coming here?”

“After.  I think,” he added carelessly, “that Mrs. Baske suggested it to him.”

“Possibly.  I know nothing of what passed between them.”

“Do you think Mrs. Baske has any idea on the subject?” Mallard inquired, again without special insistence.

“She spoke rather mysteriously,” Eleanor replied.  “When I said that Mrs. Lessingham probably could explain it, she said she thought not, but gave no reasons.”

“Why should she be mysterious?”

“That is more than I can tell you.  Mystery rather lies in her character, I fancy.”

“Would you mind telling me whether she is in the habit of going out alone?”

Eleanor hesitated a little, surprised by the question.

“Yes, she is.  She often takes a walk alone in the afternoon.”

“Thank you.  Never mind why I wished to know.  It throws no light on Cecily’s disappearance.”

They talked of it for some time, and were still so engaged when Spence came in.  In him the intelligence excited no particular anxiety; Cecily had gone to her aunt, that was all.  What else was to be expected when she found an empty house?

“But,” remarked Eleanor, “the question remains whether or not she has heard of this scandal.”