They were talking now—­the two girls, discussing their strange discovery.  When he saw Rosamund this evening—­of course he would see her, as she had promised—­her surprise would already have lost its poignancy; he had but to tell the story of his disaster, of his struggles, and then to announce the coming moment of rescue.  No chance could have been happier than this which betrayed him to these two at the same time; for Bertha Cross’s good sense would be the best possible corrective of any shock her more sensitive companion might have received.  Bertha Cross’s good sense—­that was how he thought of her, without touch of emotion; whilst on Rosamund his imagination dwelt with exultant fervour.  He saw himself as he would appear in her eyes when she knew all—­noble, heroic.  What he had done was a fine thing, beyond the reach of ordinary self-regarding mortals, and who more capable than Rosamund of appreciating such courage?  After all, fate was kind.  In the byways of London it had wrought for him a structure of romance, and amid mean pursuits it exalted him to an ideal of love.

And as he thus dreamt, and smiled and gloried—­very much like an aproned Malvolio—­the hours went quickly by.  He found himself near Albert Bridge, pacing this way and that, expecting at every moment the appearance of the slim figure clad in grey.  The sun set; the blind of Rosamund’s sitting-room showed that there was lamplight within; and at ten o’clock Warburton still hung about the square, hoping—­against his reason—­that she might come forth.  He went home, and wrote to her.

In a score of ways he explained to himself her holding aloof.  It was vexation at his not having confided in her; it was a desire to reflect before seeing him again; it was—­and so on, all through the night, which brought him never a wink of sleep.  Next morning, he did not go to the shop; it would have been impossible to stand at the counter for ten minutes, he sent a note to Allchin, saying that he was detained by private affairs, then set off for a day-long walk in the country, to kill time until the coming of Rosamund’s reply.  On his return in the afternoon, he found it awaiting him.

An hour later he was in Oakley Crescent.  He stood looking at the house for a moment, then approached, and knocked at the door.  He asked if Miss Elvan was at home.

“She’s gone away,” was the reply of the landlady, who spoke distantly, her face a respectable blank.

“Left for good?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the woman, her eyes falling.

“You don’t know where she has gone to?”

“It’s somewhere abroad, sir—­in France, I think.  She has a sister there.”

This was at five o’clock or so.  Of what happened during the next four hours, Will had never a very distinct recollection.  Beyond doubt, he called at the shop, and spoke with Allchin; beyond doubt, also, he went to his lodgings and packed a travelling bag.  Which of his movements were performed in cabs, which on foot, he could scarce have decided, had he reflected on the matter during the night that followed.  That night was passed in the train, on a steamboat, then again on the railway And before sunrise he was in Paris.