Mallard could have solved their doubts on this point, but to do so involved an explanation of how he came possessed of the knowledge; he held his peace.

It was doubtful whether Elgar would keep his promise and communicate any news he might have.  Mallard worked through the day, as usual, but with an uneasy mind.  In the morning he walked over once more to the Spences’, and learnt that anxieties were at an end; Mrs. Baske had received a letter from her brother, in which Cecily’s absence was explained.  Elgar wrote that he was making preparations for departure; in a few days they hoped to be in Paris, where henceforth they purposed living.

He went away without seeing Miriam, and there passed more than a fortnight before he again paid her a visit.  In the meantime he had seen Spence, who reported an interview between Eleanor and Mrs. Lessingham; nothing of moment, but illustrating the idiosyncrasies of Cecily’s relative.  When at length, one sunny afternoon, Mallard turned his steps towards the familiar house, it was his chance to encounter Eleanor and her husband just hastening to catch a train; they told him hurriedly that Miriam had heard from Paris.

“Go and ask her to tell you about it,” said Eleanor.  “She is not going out.”

Mallard asked nothing better.  He walked on with a curious smile, was admitted, and waited a minute or two in the drawing-room.  Miriam entered, and shook hands with him, coldly courteous, distantly dignified.

“I am sorry Mrs. Spence is not at home.”

“I came to see you, Mrs. Baske.  I have just met them, and heard that you have news from Paris.”

“Only a note, sending a temporary address.”

He observed her as she spoke, and let silence follow.  “You would like to know it—­the address?” she added, meeting his look with a rather defiant steadiness.

“No, thank you.  It will be enough if I know where they finally settle.  You saw Mrs. Elgar before she left?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Miriam’s face was clouded.  She sat very stiffly, and averted her eyes as if to ignore his remark.  Mallard, who had been holding his hat and stick in conventional manner, threw them both aside, and leaned his elbow on the back of the settee.

“I should like,” he said deliberately, “to ask you a question which sounds impertinent, but which I think you will understand is not really so.  Will you tell me how you regard Mrs. Elgar?  I mean, is it your wish to be still as friendly with her as you once were?  Or do you, for whatever reason, hold aloof from her?”

“Will you explain to me, Mr. Mallard, why you think yourself justified in asking such a question?”

In both of them there were signs of nervous discomposure.  Miriam flushed a little; the artist moved from one attitude to another, and began to play destructively with a tassel.

“Yes,” he answered.  “I have a deep interest in Mrs. Elgar’s welfare—­that needs no explaining—­and I have reason to fear that something in which I was recently concerned may have made you less disposed to think of her as I wish you to.  Is it so or not?”