“I mention the circumstance, as you may be better able than I am to find a clew to it, and as it may possibly be of a nature to induce you to hasten your journey.

“Your faithful servant,

“ALFRED DE BLERIOT.”

XIV.

From Mrs. Lecount to Mr. de Bleriot.

“November 1st.

“DEAR SIR—­One line to say that your letter has just reached me at my lodging in London.  I think I know who sent the strange man to inquire at Allonby.  It matters little.  Before he finds out his mistake, I shall be at Dumfries.  My luggage is packed, and I start for the North by the next train.

“Your deeply obliged

“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.”

THE FIFTH SCENE

BALIOL COTTAGE, DUMFRIES.

CHAPTER I.

TOWARD eleven o’clock, on the morning of the third of November, the breakfast-table at Baliol Cottage presented that essentially comfortless appearance which is caused by a meal in a state of transition—­that is to say, by a meal prepared for two persons, which has been already eaten by one, and which has not yet been approached by the other.  It must be a hardy appetite which can contemplate without a momentary discouragement the battered egg-shell, the fish half stripped to a skeleton, the crumbs in the plate, and the dregs in the cup.  There is surely a wise submission to those weaknesses in human nature which must be respected and not reproved, in the sympathizing rapidity with which servants in places of public refreshment clear away all signs of the customer in the past, from the eyes of the customer in the present.  Although his predecessor may have been the wife of his bosom or the child of his loins, no man can find himself confronted at table by the traces of a vanished eater, without a passing sense of injury in connection with the idea of his own meal.

Some such impression as this found its way into the mind of Mr. Noel Vanstone when he entered the lonely breakfast-parlor at Baliol Cottage shortly after eleven o’clock.  He looked at the table with a frown, and rang the bell with an expression of disgust.

“Clear away this mess,” he said, when the servant appeared.  “Has your mistress gone?”

“Yes, sir—­nearly an hour ago.”

“Is Louisa downstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you have put the table right, send Louisa up to me.”

He walked away to the window.  The momentary irritation passed away from his face; but it left an expression there which remained—­an expression of pining discontent.  Personally, his marriage had altered him for the worse.  His wizen little cheeks were beginning to shrink into hollows, his frail little figure had already contracted a slight stoop.  The former delicacy of his complexion had gone—­the sickly paleness of it was all that remained.