She lingered by the table, touching objects with the tips of her gloved fingers, as if lovingly and sadly; at length she seated herself in Wilfrid’s chair and gazed about the room with languid, wistful eyes.  Her bosom heaved; once or twice a sigh trembled to all but a sob.  She lost herself in reverie.  Then the clock near her chimed silverly half-past eleven.  Beatrice drew a deep breath, rose slowly, and slowly went from the room.

A cab took her to Mrs. Baxendale’s.  That lady was at home and alone, reading in fact; she closed her book as Beatrice entered, and a placid smile accompanied her observation of her niece’s magnificence.

‘I was coming to make inquiries,’ she said.  ’Mrs. Birks gave me a disturbing account of you yesterday.  Has your headache gone?’

‘Over, all over,’ Beatrice replied quietly.  ‘They make too much of it.’

‘I think it is you who make too little of it.  You are wretchedly pale.’

’Am I?  That will soon go.  I think I must leave town before long.  Advise me; where shall I go?’

‘But you don’t think of going before—?’

‘Yes, quite soon.’

‘You are mysterious,’ remarked Mrs. Baxendale, raising her eyebrows a little as she smiled.

’Well, aunt, I will be so no longer.  I want to cross-examine you, if you will let me.  Do you promise to answer?’

‘To the best of my poor ability.’

’Then the first question shall be this,—­when did you last hear of Emily Hood?’

‘Of Emily Hood?’

Mrs. Baxendale had the habit of controlling the display of her emotions, it was part of her originality.  But it was evident that the question occasioned her extreme surprise, and not a little trouble.

‘Yes, will you tell me?’ said Beatrice, in a tone of calm interest.

’It’s a strange question.  Still, if you really desire to know, I heard from her about six months ago.’

‘She was in London then?’

Mrs. Baxendale had quite ceased to smile.  When any puzzling matter occupied her thought she always frowned very low; at present her frown indicated anxiety.

‘What reason have you to think she was in London, Beatrice?’

‘Only her being here now.’

Beatrice said it with a show of pleasant artfulness, holding her head aside a little and smiling into her aunt’s eyes.  Mrs. Baxendale relaxed her frown and looked away.

‘Have you seen her lately?’ Beatrice continued.

‘I have not soon her for years.’

‘Ah!  But you have corresponded with her?’

‘At very long intervals.’

Before Beatrice spoke again, her aunt resumed.

’Don’t lay traps for me, my dear.  Suppose you explain at once your interest in Emily Hood’s whereabouts.’

’Yes, I wish to do so.  I have come to you to talk about it, aunt, because I know you take things quietly, and just now I want a little help of the kind you can give.  You have guessed, of course, what I am going to tell you,—­part of it at least.  Wilfrid and she have met.’