He just caught the train.  It would bring him to town by mid-day, in comfortable time to lunch and adorn himself before the permissible hour of calling in Pont Street.  Rapid movement excited his imagination; he clung now to the hypothesis which at first seemed untenable; he built hopes upon it.  Could he win a confession from May Tomalin, why should it be hopeless to sway the mind of Lady Ogram?  If that were deemed impossible, they had but to wait.  Lady Ogram would not live till the autumn.  To be sure, she looked better since her return to Rivenoak, but she was frail, oh very frail, and sure to go off at a moment’s notice.  As for Constance—­oh, Constance!

At his lodgings he found unimportant letters.  Every letter would have seemed unimportant, compared with that he carried in his pocket.  Roach, M. P., invited him to dine.  The man at the Home Office wanted him to go to a smoking concert.  Lady Susan Harrop sent a beggarly card for an evening ten days hence.  Like the woman’s impudence!  And yet, as it had been posted since her receipt of his mother’s recent letter, it proved that Lady Susan had a sense of his growing dignity, which was good in its way.  He smiled at a recollection of the time when a seat at those people’s table had seemed a desirable and agitating thing.

Before half-past three he found himself walking in Sloane Street.  After consulting his watch several times in the course of a few minutes, he decided that, early as it was, he would go on at once to Mrs. Toplady’s.  Was he not privileged?  Moreover, light rain began to fall, with muttering of thunder:  he must seek shelter.

At a door in Pont Street stood two vehicles, a brougham and a cab.  Was it at Mrs. Toplady’s?  Yes, so it proved; and, just as Dyce went up to the house, the door opened.  Out came a servant, carrying luggage; behind the servant came Mrs. Toplady, and, behind her, Miss Tomalin.  Hat in hand, Lashmar faced the familiar smile, at this moment undisguisedly mischievous.

“Mr. Lashmar!” exclaimed the lady, in high good humour.  “We are just going to St. Pancras.  Miss Tomalin leaves me to-day.—­Why, it is raining!  Can’t we take you with us?  Yes, yes, come into the carriage, and we’ll drop you where you like.”

Lashmar’s eye was on the heiress.  She said nothing as she shook hands, and, unless he mistook, there was a tremour about her lips, her eyelids, an unwonted suggestion of shyness in her bearing.  The ladies being seated, he took his place opposite to them, and again perused Miss Tomalin’s countenance.  Decidedly, she was unlike herself; manifestly, she avoided his look.  Mrs. Toplady talked away, in the gayest spirits; and the rain came down heavily, and thunder rolled.  Half the distance to St. Pancras was covered before May had uttered anything more than a trivial word or two.  Of a sudden she addressed Lashmar, as if about to speak of something serious.

“You left all well at Rivenoak?”