“If she really wished to hide herself from you, she would most likely change her name.”

“Why should she wish to hide herself from me?  She must know that she might trust me.  Of her own free will she would never do this cruel thing.  There must have been some secret influence at work upon my darling’s mind.  It shall be my business to discover what that influence was; or, in plainer words still, to discover the man who has robbed me of Marian Nowell’s heart.”

“It comes to that, then,” said John Saltram.  “You suspect some unknown rival?”

“Yes; that is the most natural conclusion to arrive at.  And yet heaven knows how unwillingly I take that into consideration.”

“There is no particular person whom you suspect?”

“No one.”

“If there should be no result from your advertisement, what will you do?”

“I cannot tell you just yet.  Unless I get some kind of clue, the business will seem a hopeless one.  But I cannot imagine that the advertisements will fail completely.  If she left Lidford to be married, there must be some record of her marriage.  Should my first advertisements fail, my next shall be inserted with a view to discover such a record.”

“And if, after infinite trouble, you should find her the wife of another man, what reward would you have for your wasted time and lost labour?”

“The happiness of knowing her to be in a safe and honourable position.  I love her too dearly to remain in ignorance of her fate.”

“Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is generally thrown away in such a case as this; but I have a fixed opinion on the subject.  To my mind, there is only one wise course open to you, and that is, to let this thing alone, and resign yourself to the inevitable.  I acknowledge that Miss Nowell was eminently worthy of your affection; but you know the old song—­’If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be.’  There are plenty of women in the world.  The choice is wide enough.”

“Not for me, John.  Marian Nowell is the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I ever can love.”

“My dear boy, it is so natural for you to believe that just now; and a year hence you will think so differently!”

“No, John.  But I am not going to mate any protestations of my constancy.  Let the matter rest.  I knew that my life is broken—­that this blow has left me nothing to hope for or to live for, except the hope of finding the girl who has wronged me.  I won’t weary you with lamentations.  My talk has been entirely of self since I came into this room.  Tell me your own affairs, Jack, old friend.  How has the world gone with you since we parted at Liverpool last year?”

“Not too smoothly.  My financial position becomes a little more obscure and difficult of comprehension every year, as you know; but I rub on somehow.  I have been working at literature like a galley-slave; have contributed no end of stuff to the Quarterlies; and am engaged upon a book,—­yes Gil, positively a book,—­which I hope may do great things for me if ever I can finish it.”