received no answer. There was, however, a vestige of surprise and
dissatisfaction on his face beholding Adrian of the company, which had
not quite worn away, and gave place, when it did vanish, to an aspect of
flabby severity.

"Well, Benson? well?" said the baronet.

The unmoving man replied: "If you please, Sir Austin--Mr. Richard!"

"Well!"

"He's out!"

"Well?"

"With Bakewell!"

"Well?"

"And a carpet-bag!"

The carpet-bag might be supposed to contain that funny thing called a
young hero's romance in the making.

Out Richard was, and with a carpet-bag, which Tom Bakewell carried. He
was on the road to Bellingham, under heavy rain, hasting like an escaped
captive, wild with joy, while Tom shook his skin, and grunted at his
discomforts. The mail train was to be caught at Bellingham. He knew
where to find her now, through the intervention of Miss Davenport, and
thither he was flying, an arrow loosed from the bow: thither, in spite of