There was not much in all this. He had probably taken leave of his host outside--in a correct ceremonial manner.

But no one had seen him do so; and, as he had been for some time staying at the house, the departure looked somewhat brusque. For certain it was strangely timed.

Still it might not have been remarked upon, but for another circumstance: that, after he was gone, the baronet's daughter appeared no more among the dancers.

She had not been seen since she had stood up in the _valse_ where she and her partner had been so closely scrutinised!

She was but a young thing. The spin may have affected her to giddiness; and she had retired to rest awhile.

This was the reasoning of those who chanced to think of it.

They were not many. The charmers in wide skirts had enough to do thinking of themselves; the dowagers had betaken themselves to quiet whist in the antechambers: and the absence of Blanche Vernon brought no blight upon the general enjoyment.

But the absence of her father did--that is, his absence of mind. During the rest of the evening there was a strangeness in Sir George's manner noticed by many of his guests; an abstraction, palpably, almost painfully observable. Even his good breeding was not proof against the blow he had sustained!

Despite his efforts to conceal it, his more intimate acquaintances could see that something had gone astray.

Its effect was to put a damper on the night's hilarity; and perhaps earlier than would have otherwise happened were the impatient coachmen outside released from their chill waiting upon the sweep.

And earlier, also, did the guests staying at the house retire to their separate sleeping apartments.

Sir George did not go direct to his; but first to his library.

He went not alone. Frank Scudamore accompanied him.

He did so, at the request of his uncle, after the others had said good-night.

The object of this late interview between Sir George and his nephew is made known, by the conversation that occurred between them.

"Frank," began the baronet, "I desire you to be frank with me."

Sir George said this, without intending a pun. He was in no mood for playing upon words.

"About what, uncle?" asked Scudamore, looking a little surprised.

"About all you've seen between Blanche and this--fellow."

The "fellow" was pronounced with contemptuous emphasis--almost in a hiss.

"All I've seen?"

"All you've seen, and all you've heard."

"What I've seen and heard I have told you. That is, up to this night-- up to an hour ago."

"An hour ago! Do you mean what occurred under the tree?"

"No uncle, not that I've seen something since."

"Since! Captain Maynard went immediately away?"

"He did. But not without taking a certain thing along with him he ought not to have taken."

"Taken a certain thing along with him! What do you mean, nephew?"

"That your honoured guest carried out of your house a piece of paper upon which something had been written."

"By whom?"

"By my cousin Blanche."

"When, and where?"

"Well, I suppose while he was getting ready to go; and as to the where, I presume it was done by Blanche in her bedroom. She went there after-- what you saw."

Sir George listened to this information with as much coolness as he could command. Still, there was a twitching of the facial muscles, and a pallor overspreading his cheeks, his nephew could not fail to notice.

"Proceed, Frank!" he said, in a faltering voice, "go on, and tell me all. How did you become acquainted with this?"

"By the merest accident," pursued the willing informant. "I was outside the drawing-room, resting between two dances. It was just at the time Captain Maynard was going off. From where I was standing, I could see up the stairway to the top landing. He was there talking to Sabina, and as it appeared to me, in a very confidential manner. I saw him slip something into her hand--a piece of money, I suppose--just after she had dropped something white into the pocket of his overcoat. I could tell it was paper--folded in the shape of a note."

"Are you sure it was that?"

"Quite sure, uncle. I had no doubt of it at the time; and said to myself, 'It's a note that's been written by my cousin, who has sent Sabina to give it to him.' I'd have stopped him on the stair and made him give it up again, but for raising a row in the house. You know that would never have done."

Sir George did not hear the boasting remark. He was not listening to it His soul was too painfully absorbed--reflecting upon this strange doing of his daughter.

"Poor child!" muttered he in sad soliloquy. "Poor innocent child! And this, after all my care, my ever-zealous guardianship, my far more than ordinary solicitude. Oh God! to think I've taken a serpent into my house, who should thus turn and sting me!"

The baronet's feelings forbade farther conversation; and Scudamore was dismissed to his bed.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

UNSOCIABLE FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.

The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station, to connect with the Crystal Palace.

The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen--painful after what had passed.

He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and only because some of these seemed familiar.

On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and gentlemen.

The place would account for their being there at so late an hour-- excursionists to the Crystal Palace--but still more, a certain volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the Sydenham Hotel.

They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage for London.