“Lord, ’twas a strange thing,” said Sir Christopher, thoughtfully, “that a man could disappear like that and leave no trace—­no trace.”

“Has—­all enquiry—­ceased?” her Grace asked, quietly.

“There was not much even at first, save from his creditors,” said Lord Charles, with a laugh.

“Ay, but ’twas strange,” said old Sir Christopher.  “I’ve thought and thought what could have come of him.  Why, Clo, thou wast the one who saw him last.  What dost thou think?”

In the park below there was a sudden sweet swelling of the music:  the dancers had joined in with their voices.

“Yes,” said the Duchess, “’twas I who saw him last.”  And for a few seconds all paused to listen to the melody in the air.  But Sir Christopher came back to his theme.

“What sort of humour was the man in?” he asked.  “Did he complain of ’s lot?”

Her Grace hesitated a second, as one who thought, and then shook her head.

“No,” she answered, and no other word.

“Did he speak of taking a journey?” said Lady Betty.

And the Duchess shook her head slow again, and answered as before, “No.”

And the music swelled with fresh added voices, and floated up gayer and more sweet.

“Was he dressed for travel?” asked Lord Charles, he being likely to think first of the meaning of a man’s dress.

“No,” said her Grace.

And then my lord Duke drew near behind her, and spoke over her shoulder.

“Did he bid you any farewell?” he said.

She had not known he was so close, and gave a great start and dropped her rose upon the terrace.  Before she answered, she stooped herself and picked it up.

“No,” she said, very low.  “No; none.”

“Then,” his Grace said, “I will tell you what I think.”

“You!” said my Lady Betty.  “Has your Grace thought?”

“Often,” he answered.  “Who has not, at some time?  I—­knew more of the man than many.  More than once his life touched mine.”

“Yours!” they cried.

He waved his hand with the gesture of a man who would sweep away some memory.

“Yes,” he said; “once I saw the end of a poor soul he had maddened, and ’twas a cruel thing.”  He turned his face towards his wife.

“The morning that he left your Grace,” he said, “’tis my thought he went not far.”

“Not far?” the party exclaimed, but the Duchess joined not in the chorus.

“Between Dunstanwolde House and his lodgings,” he went on, “lie some of the worst haunts in London.  He was well known there, and not by friends but by enemies.  Perchance some tortured creature who owed him a bitter debt may have lain in wait and paid it.”

The Duchess turned and gazed at him with large eyes.

“What—­” she said, almost hoarsely, “what do you mean?”

“There were men,” he answered, gravely—­“husbands, fathers, and brothers—­there were women he had driven to despair and madness, who might well have struck him down.”