Geoffrey reached Town a little before eleven o'clock that night--a haunted man--haunted for life by a vision of that face still lovely in death， floating alone upon the deep， and companioned only by the screaming mews--or perchance now sinking or sunk to an unfathomable grave. Well might such a vision haunt a man， the man whom alone of all men those cold lips had kissed， and for whose dear sake this dreadful thing was done.
He took a cab directing the driver to go to Bolton Street and to stop at his club as he passed. There might be letters for him there， he thought--something which would distract his mind a little. As it chanced there was a letter， marked "private，" and a telegram； both had been delivered that evening， the porter said， the former about an hour ago by hand.
Idly he opened the telegram--it was from his lawyers： "Your cousin， the child George Bingham， is， as we have just heard， dead. Please call on us early to-morrow morning."He started a little， for this meant a good deal to Geoffrey. It meant a baronetcy and eight thousand a year， more or less. How delighted Honoria would be， he thought with a sad smile； the loss of that large income had always been a bitter pill to her， and one which she had made him swallow again and again. Well， there it was. Poor boy， he had always been ailing--an old man's child！
He put the telegram in his pocket and got into the hansom again. There was a lamp in it and by its light he read the letter. It was from the Prime Minister and ran thus：
"My dear Bingham，--I have not seen you since Monday to thank you for the magnificent speech you made on that night. Allow me to add my congratulations to those of everybody else. As you know， the Under Secretaryship of the Home Office is vacant. On behalf of my colleagues and myself I write to ask if you will consent to fill it for a time， for we do not in any way consider that the post is one commensurate with your abilities. It will， however， serve to give you practical experience of administration， and us the advantage of your great talents to an even larger extent than we now enjoy. For the future， it must of course take care of itself；but， as you know， Sir ----'s health is not all that could be desired， and the other day he told me that it was doubtful if he would be able to carry on the duties of the Attorney-Generalship for very much longer. In view of this contingency I venture to suggest that you would do well to apply for silk as soon as possible. I have spoken to the Lord Chancellor about it， and he says that there will be no difficulty， as although you have only been in active practice for so short a while， you have a good many years' standing as a barrister. Or if this prospect does not please doubtless some other opening to the Cabinet can be found in time. The fact is， that we cannot in our own interest overlook you for long."Geoffrey smiled again as he finished this letter. Who could have believed a year ago that he would have been to-day in a position to receive such an epistle from the Prime Minister of England？ Ah， here was the luck of the Drowned One's shoe with a vengeance. And what was it all worth to him now？
He put the letter in his pocket with the telegram and looked out. They were turning into Bolton Street. How was little Effie， he wondered？
The child seemed all that was left him to care for. If anything happened to her--bah， he would not think of it！
He was there now. "How is Miss Effie？" he asked of the servant who opened the door. At that moment his attention was attracted by the dim forms of two people， a man and a woman， who were standing not far from the area gate， the man with his arm round the woman's waist. Suddenly the woman appeared to catch sight of the cab and retired swiftly down the area. It crossed his mind that her figure was very like that of Anne， the French nurse.
"Miss Effie is doing nicely， sir， I'm told，" answered the man.
Geoffrey breathed more freely. "Where is her ladyship？" he asked. "In Effie's room？""No， sir，" answered the man， "her ladyship has gone to a ball. She left this note for you in case you should come in."He took the note from the hall table and opened it.
"Dear Geoffrey，" it ran， "Effie is so much better that I have made up my mind to go to the duchess's ball after all. She would be so disappointed if I did not come， and my dress is quite /lovely/.
Had your mysterious business anything to do with /Bryngelly/？--Yours， Honoria."
"She would go on to a ball from her mother's funeral，" said Geoffrey to himself， as he walked up to Effie's room； "well， it is her nature and there's an end of it."He knocked at the door of Effie's room. There was no answer， so he walked in. The room was lit but empty--no， not quite！ On the floor， clothed only in her white night-shirt， lay his little daughter， to all appearance dead.
With something like an oath he sprang to her and lifted her. The face was pale and the small hands were cold， but the breast was still hot and fevered， and the heart beat. A glance showed him what had happened. The child being left alone， and feeling thirsty， had got out of bed and gone to the water bottle--there was the tumbler on the floor. Then weakness had overcome her and she had fainted--fainted upon the cold floor with the inflammation still on her.
At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly murmuring， "？a va bien， chérie？""Help me to put the child into bed，" said Geoffrey sternly. "Now ring the bell--ring it again.
"And now， woman--go. Leave this house at once， this very night. Do you hear me？ No， don't stop to argue. Look here！ If that child dies I will prosecute you for manslaughter； yes， I saw you in the street，" and he took a step towards her. Then Anne fled， and her face was seen no more in Bolton Street or indeed in this country.