"And now for these criminal law books, Carr, that bear upon the case," he
said, returning from the front-door.
"I must go down to my chambers for them."
"I know they can't bring it home to me; I know they can't!" he exclaimed,
in tones so painfully eager as to prove to Lady Hartledon's ears that he
thought they could, whatever the matter might be. "I'll go with you,
Carr; this uncertainty is killing me."
"There's little uncertainty about it, I fear," was the grave reply. "You
had better look the worst in the face."
They went out, intending to hail the first cab. Very much to Lord
Hartledon's surprise he saw his wife's carriage waiting at the door, the
impatient horses chafing at their delay. What could have detained her?
"Wait for me one moment, Carr," he said. "Stop a cab if you see one."
He dashed up to the drawing-room; his wife was coming forth then, her
cloak and gloves on, her fan in her hand. "Maude, my darling," he
exclaimed, "what has kept you? Surely you have not waited for me?--you
did not misunderstand me?"
"I hardly know what has kept me," she evasively answered. "It is late,
but I'm going now."
It never occurred to Lord Hartledon that she had been watching or
listening. Incapable of any meanness of the sort, he could not suspect it
in another. Lady Hartledon's fertile brain had been suggesting a solution
of this mystery.
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