some day I send you a line—­no, perhaps some day I send you a message; but you will not know where I am; and if you are my friend you will not seek to know.  Adieu, Estelle!  I hope you will always be happy, as you are good; but even in your happiest days you will sometimes give a thought to poor Nina.”

He sat there looking at the letter, long after he had finished reading it; there was nothing of the petulance of a spoiled child in this simple, this heartbroken farewell.  And Nina herself was in every phrase of it—­in her anxiety not to be a trouble to any one—­her gratitude for very small kindnesses—­her wish to live in the gentle remembrance of her friends.

“But why did no one stop her?—­why did no one remonstrate?” he asked, in a sort of stupefaction.

“Who could, then?” said Mlle. Girond, returning to her seat and clasping her hands in front of her.  “As soon as the housemaid appears in the morning, Nina asks her to come into the room; the money is put into an envelope for Mrs. Grey; the not great luggage is taken quiet down the stair, so that no one is disturbed.  Everything is arranged; you know Nina was always so—­so business-like—­”

“Yes, but the fool of a housemaid should have called Mrs. Grey!” he exclaimed.

“But why, Mr. Moore?” Estelle continued.  “She only thought that Nina was so considerate—­no one to be awakened—­and then a cab is called, and Nina goes away—­”

“And of course the housemaid didn’t hear what direction was given to the cabman!”

“No; it is a misfortune,” said Estelle, with a sigh.  “It is a misfortune, but she is not so much in fault.  She did not conjecture—­she thought Nina was going to catch an early train—­that she did not wish to disturb any one.  All was in order; all natural, simple; no one can blame her.  And so poor Nina disappears—­”

“Yes, disappears into the world of London, or into the larger world, without friends, without money—­had she any money, Miss Girond?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” Estelle exclaimed.  “You did not know?  Ah, she was so particular; always exact in her economies, and sometimes I laughed at her; but always she said perhaps some day she would have to play the part of the—­the—­benevolent fairy to some poor one, and she must save up—­”

“Had she a bank account?”

Estelle nodded her head.

“Then she could not have got the money yesterday, if she wished to withdraw it; she must have been in London this morning!”

“Perhaps,” said Estelle.  “But then!  Look at the letter.  She says if I am her friend, I will not seek to know where she is.”

“But that does not apply to me,” he retorted—­while his brain was filled with all kinds of wild guesses as to whither Nina had fled.

“You are not her friend?” Estelle said, quietly.