This was, indeed, the mysterious truth.  After he entered the Panelled Parlour at Dunstanwolde House it seemed that none had seen him, for the fact was that by a strange chance even the lacquey who should have been at his place in the entrance hall had allowed himself to be ensnared from his duty by a pretty serving-wench, and had left his post for a few minutes to make love to her in the servants’ hall, during which time ’twas plain Sir John must have left the house, opening the entrance-door for himself unattended.

“Lord,” said the lacquey in secret to his mates, “my gizzard was in my throat when her ladyship began to question me.  ’Did you see the gentle, man depart, Martin?’ says she. ’’Twas you who attended him to the door, of a surety.’  ‘Yes, your ladyship,’ stammers I. ’’Twas I—­and I marked he seemed in haste.’  ‘Did you not observe him as he walked away?’ says my lady.  ‘Did you not see which way he went?’ ’To the left he turned, my lady,’ says I, cold sweat breaking out on me, for had I faltered in an answer she would have known I was lying and guessed I had broke her orders by leaving my place by the door—­and Lord have mercy on a man when she finds he has tricked her.  There is a flash in her eye like lightning, and woe betide him it falls on.  But truth was that from the moment the door of the Panelled Parlour closed behind him the gentleman’s days were ended, for all I saw of him, for I saw him no more.”

And there was none who saw him, for from that time he disappeared from his lodgings, from the town, from England, from the surface of the earth, as far as any ever heard or discovered, none knowing where he went, or how, or wherefore.

Had he been a man of greater worth or importance, or one who had made friends, his so disappearing would have aroused a curiosity and excitement not easily allayed; but a vicious wastrel who has lost hold even on his whilom companions in evil-doing, and has no friends more faithful, is like, indeed, on dropping out of the world’s sight, to drop easily and lightly from its mind, his loss being a nine days’ wonder and nothing more.

So it was with this one, who had had his day of being the fashion and had broken many a fine lady’s brittle heart, and, living to be no longer the mode, had seen the fragile trifles cemented together again, to be almost as good as new.  When he was gone he was forgot quickly and, indeed, but talked about because her ladyship of Dunstanwolde had last beheld him, and on the afternoon had been entertaining company in the Panelled Parlour when the lacquey had brought back the undelivered note with which Jenfry had waited three hours at the lost man’s lodgings in the hope that he would return to them, which he did no more.

“’Tis a good riddance to all, my lady, wheresoever he be gone,” said Sir Christopher, sitting nursing his stout knee in the blue parlour a week later (for her ladyship had had a sudden fancy to have the panelled room made wholly new and decorated before the return of his Grace from France).  “Tis a good riddance to all.”