Reaching London at ten o’clock in the morning, he drove directly to King’s Cross, and pursued his journey northwards.  Though worn with fatigue, excitement would not allow him more than a snatch of sleep now and then.  When at length he stepped out at Dunfield, he was in sorry plight.  He went to an hotel, refreshed himself as well as he could, and made inquiry about the Baxendales’ address.  At four o’clock he presented himself at the house, and sent in a card to Beatrice.

The Baxendales lived in St. Luke’s, which we already know as the fashionable quarter of Dunfield.  Their house stood by itself, with high walls about it, enclosing a garden; at the door were stone pillars, the lower half painted a dull red.  It seemed the abode of solid people, not troubled with scruples of taste.  It was with surprise that Wilfrid found himself in a room abundantly supplied with books and furnished in library fashion.  His state of mind notwithstanding, he glanced along a few shelves, discovering yet more unexpected things, to wit, philosophical works.  Unfortunately the corners of the room showed busts of certain modern English statesmen:  but one looks for weaknesses everywhere.

Beatrice entered, rustling in a light, shimmery dress.  Her face expressed embarrassment rather than surprise; after the first exchange of glances, she avoided his eager look.  Her hand had lain but coldly in his.  Wilfrid, face to face with her, found more difficulty in speaking than he had anticipated.

‘I have come directly from Switzerland,’ he began.  ’You mentioned in a letter to my aunt that—­’

His hesitation of a moment was relieved by Beatrice.

‘You mean Miss Hood’s illness,’ she said, looking down at her hands, which were lightly clasped on her lap.

‘Yes.  I wish for news.  I thought it likely you might know—­’

Probably it was the effect of his weariness; he could not speak in his usual straightforward way; hesitancy, to his own annoyance, made gaps and pauses in his sentences.

‘We heard this morning,’ Beatrice said, looking past his face to the window, ‘that she is better.  The danger seems to be over.’

‘There has been danger?’

‘The day before yesterday she was given up.’

‘So ill as that.’  Wilfrid spoke half to himself, and indeed it cost him an effort to make his voice louder.  He began, ‘Can you tell me—­’ and again paused.

‘Have you heard nothing from any other quarter?’ Beatrice asked, after a silence of almost a minute.

He looked at her, wondering what she knew of his relations to Emily.  It was clear that his interest occasioned her no surprise.

’I came away immediately on hearing what your letter contained.  There is no one else with whom I could communicate.  I hesitated to go to the house, not knowing—­Will you tell me what you know of this horrible event?’

Beatrice stroked one hand with the other, and seemed to constrain herself to lock up and to speak.