He wearied his brain in endeavoring to find a clew
to the signification of these two sentences.
He could remember nothing, nor could he imagine anything
that would throw a light upon their meaning. The
date of Helen’s departure, according to Mr.
Maldon’s letter, was the 16th of August, 1854.
Miss Tonks had declared that Lucy Graham entered the
school at Crescent Villas upon the 17th or 18th of
August in the same year. Between the departure
of Helen Talboys from the Yorkshire watering-place
and the arrival of Lucy Graham at the Brompton school,
not more than eight-and-forty hours could have elapsed.
This made a very small link in the chain of circumstantial
evidence, perhaps; but it was a link, nevertheless,
and it fitted neatly into its place.
“Did Mr. Maldon hear from his daughter after
she had left Wildernsea?” Robert asked.
“Well, I believe he did hear from her,”
Mrs. Barkamb answered; “but I didn’t see
much of the old gentleman after that August. I
was obliged to sell him up in November, poor fellow,
for he owed me fifteen months’ rent; and it
was only by selling his poor little bits of furniture
that I could get him out of my place. We parted
very good friends, in spite of my sending in the brokers;
and the old gentleman went to London with the child,
who was scarcely a twelvemonth old.”
Mrs. Barkamb had nothing more to tell, and Robert
had no further questions to ask. He requested
permission to retain the two letters written by the
lieutenant and his daughter, and left the house with
them in his pocket-book.
He walked straight back to the hotel, where he called
for a time-table. An express for London left
Wildernsea at a quarter past one. Robert sent
his portmanteau to the station, paid his bill, and
walked up and down the stone terrace fronting the
sea, waiting for the starting of the train.
“I have traced the histories of Lucy Graham
and Helen Talboys to a vanishing point,” he
thought; “my next business is to discover the
history of the woman who lies buried in Ventnor churchyard.”
HIDDEN IN THE GRAVE.
Upon his return from Wildernsea, Robert Audley found
a letter from his Cousin Alicia, awaiting him at his
chambers.
“Papa is much better,” the young lady
wrote, “and is very anxious to have you at the
Court. For some inexplicable reason, my stepmother
has taken it into her head that your presence is extremely
desirable, and worries me with her frivolous questions
about your movements. So pray come without delay,
and set these people at rest. Your affectionate
cousin, A.A.”
“So my lady is anxious to know my movements,”
thought Robert Audley, as he sat brooding and smoking
by his lonely fireside. “She is anxious;
and she questions her step-daughter in that pretty,
childlike manner which has such a bewitching air of
innocent frivolity. Poor little creature; poor
unhappy little golden-haired sinner; the battle between
us seems terribly unfair. Why doesn’t she
run away while there is still time? I have given
her fair warning, I have shown her my cards, and worked
openly enough in this business, Heaven knows.
Why doesn’t she run away?”
