Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
"And he isn't likely to. He's probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he's done?"
"Nothing. I'm sure of that!"
"Well, I'm not so sure," was her mother's response. "I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he's promised to make inquiry."
"Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes," cried the girl angrily. "He'll find nothing against Hugh, except that he's poor."
"H'm! And he's been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo."
"Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don't care a scrap. I'm my own mistress!"
"Yes, but I tell you frankly that I'm very glad that we've seen the last of the fellow."
"Mother! You are really horrid!" cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father's death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it--something she dared not tell.
On the day following their midnight stroll, he had done all in his power to induce her to reveal something at least of the affair, but, alas! to no avail. Then, two days later, she had suddenly left--at orders of The Sparrow, she said.
Before Hugh left Ravecca had given him eighty pounds in English notes, saying that he acted at Il Passero's orders, for Hugh would no doubt need the money, and it would be most dangerous for him to write to his bankers.
At first Henfrey protested, but, as his funds were nearly exhausted, he had accepted the money.
As he left the station in Brussels on that bright spring morning and crossed the busy Place, he was wondering to what hotel he should go. He had left his scanty luggage in the consigne, intending to go out on foot and search for some cheap and obscure hotel, there being many such in the vicinity of the station. After half an hour he chose a small and apparently clean little place in a narrow street off the Place de Brouckere, and there, later on, he carried his handbag. Then, after a wash, he set out for the Central Post Office in the Place de la Monnaie.