‘The deuce take it!’ he repeated.

Mrs. Rossall pointed to the words reporting Emily’s condition at the time of writing.

‘That was more than two days ago,’ she said meaningly.

‘H’m!’ went her brother.

‘Will you tell him?’

’I suppose I must.  Yes, it is hardly allowable even to postpone it.  Where is he?’

Wilfrid was found in the hotel garden.

‘Your aunt has had a letter from Beatrice,’ Mr. Athel began, with the awkwardness of a comfortable Englishman called upon to break bad news.  ‘She is staying in Dunfield.’

‘Indeed?’

‘There’s something in the letter you ought to know.’

Wilfrid looked anxiously.

’It appears that Miss Hood’s father has—­don’t let it be a shock to you—­has just died, and died, in fact, by his own hands.’

‘Has killed himself?’ Wilfrid exclaimed, turning pale.

’Yes, I am sorry to say that is the report.  Miss Hood is naturally suffering from—­from the shocking occurrence.’

‘She is ill?’ Wilfrid asked, when he had examined his father’s face for a moment.

‘Yes, I am afraid she is.  Beatrice gives no details.’

‘You are not keeping anything from me?’

’Indeed, nothing.  The words are that she is ill, and, it is feared, seriously.’

‘I must go at once.’

It was said with quiet decision.  Wilfrid consulted his watch, and walked rapidly to the hotel.  He had to wait a couple of hours, however, before he could start on his journey, and he spent the time by himself.  His father felt he could be of no use, and Mrs. Rossall found a difficulty in approaching her nephew under such circumstances.

‘You will telegraph?’ Mr. Athel said, at the station, by way of expressing himself sympathetically.

The train moved away; and the long, miserable hours of travelling had to be lived through.  Wilfrid’s thoughts were all the more anxious from his ignorance of the dead man’s position and history.  Even yet Emily had said very little of her parents in writing to him; he imagined all manner of wretched things to connect her silence with this catastrophe.  His fears on her own account were not excessive; the state of vigorous health into which he had grown during late weeks perhaps helped him to avoid thoughts of a desperate kind.  It was bad enough that she lay ill, and from such a cause; he feared nothing worse than illness.  But his uneasiness increased as time went on; the travelling seemed intolerably tardy.  He had to decide what his course would be on reaching Dunfield, and decision was not easy.  To go straight to the house might result in painful embarrassments; it would at all events be better first to make inquiries elsewhere.  Could he have recourse to Beatrice?  At first the suggestion did not recommend itself, but nothing better came into his mind, and, as his impatience grew, the obstacles seemed so trifling that he overlooked them.  He remembered that the address of the Baxendales was unknown to him; but it could easily be discovered.  Yes, he would go straight to Beatrice.