“Dear Hubert,—­By the time this reaches you, I shall be far away, irrevocably far, from London.  With deep regret, with fierce searchings of spirit, I have come to the conclusion that, for the Purpose I have in view, it would be better for me at once to leave Nathaniel’s.  Where I go, or what I mean to do, I do not wish to tell you.  Of your charity, I pray, refrain from asking me.  I am aware that your kindness and generosity deserve better recognition.  But, like Sebastian himself, I am the slave of my Purpose.  I have lived for it all these years, and it is still very dear to me.  To tell you my plans would interfere with that end.  Do not, therefore, suppose I am insensible to your goodness. . . .  Dear Hubert, spare me—­I dare not say more, lest I say too much.  I dare not trust myself.  But one thing I must say.  I am flying from you quite as much as from Sebastian.  Flying from my own heart, quite as much as from my enemy.  Some day, perhaps, if I accomplish my object, I may tell you all.  Meanwhile, I can only beg of you of your kindness to trust me.  We shall not meet again, I fear, for years.  But I shall never forget you—­you, the kind counsellor, who have half turned me aside from my life’s Purpose.  One word more, and I should falter.—­In very great haste, and amid much disturbance, yours ever affectionately and gratefully,

“Hilda.”

It was a hurried scrawl in pencil, as if written in a train.  I felt utterly dejected.  Was Hilda, then, leaving England?

Rousing myself after some minutes, I went straight to Sebastian’s rooms, and told him in brief terms that Nurse Wade had disappeared at a moment’s notice, and had sent a note to tell me so.

He looked up from his work, and scanned me hard, as was his wont.  “That is well,” he said at last, his eyes glowing deep; “she was getting too great a hold on you, that young woman!”

“She retains that hold upon me, sir,” I answered curtly.

“You are making a grave mistake in life, my dear Cumberledge,” he went on, in his old genial tone, which I had almost forgotten.  “Before you go further, and entangle yourself more deeply, I think it is only right that I should undeceive you as to this girl’s true position.  She is passing under a false name, and she comes of a tainted stock. . . .  Nurse Wade, as she chooses to call herself, is a daughter of the notorious murderer, Yorke-Bannerman.”

My mind leapt back to the incident of the broken basin.  Yorke-Bannerman’s name had profoundly moved her.  Then I thought of Hilda’s face.  Murderers, I said to myself, do not beget such daughters as that.  Not even accidental murderers, like my poor friend Le Geyt.  I saw at once the prima facie evidence was strongly against her.  But I had faith in her still.  I drew myself up firmly, and stared him back full in the face.  “I do not believe it,” I answered, shortly.