"Fools--how?" faltered Randal.

"Of course; the young lady was at her father's house all the time."

"Eh? what?"

"And is there now."

"It is not possible!" said Randal, in the hollow, dreamy tone of a
somnambulist. "At her father's house, at Norwood! Are you sure?"

"Sure."

Randal made a desperate and successful effort at self-control. "Heaven
be praised!" he cried. "And just as I had begun to suspect the count,
the marchesa; for I find that neither of them slept at home last night;
and Levy told me that the count had written to him, requesting the baron
to discharge his bills, as he should be for some time absent from
England."

"Indeed! Well, that is nothing to us,--very much to Baron Levy, if he
executes his commission, and discharges the bills. What! are you going
already?"

"Do you ask such a question? How can I stay? I must go to Norwood,--
must see Violante with my own eyes! Forgive my emotion--I--I--"

Randal snatched at his hat and hurried away. The low scornful laugh of
Harley followed him as he went.