was gone, then; he might receive some letter of explanation perhaps, when he returned to London; but the chances were that he would never see his old friend again.
“And to think that I should care so much for the fellow!” he said, lifting his eyebrows to the center of his forehead.
“The place smells of stale tobacco like a tap-room,” he muttered presently; “there can be no harm in my smoking a cigar here.”
He took one from the case in his pocket: there was a spark of fire in the little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigar with.
A twisted piece of paper lay half burned upon the hearthrug; he picked it up, and unfolded it, in order to get a better pipe-light by folding it the other way of the paper. As he did so, absently glancing at the penciled writing upon the fragment of thin paper, a portion of a name caught his eye — a portion of the name that was most in his thoughts. He took the scrap of paper to the window, and examined it by the declining light.
It was part of a telegraphic dispatch. The upper portion had been burnt away, but the more important part, the greater part of the message itself, remained.
“— alboys came to . . . last night, and left by the mail for London, on his way to Liverpool, whence he was to sail for Sydney.”
The date and the name and address of the sender of the message had been burnt with the heading. Robert Audley’s face blanched to a deathly whiteness. He carefully folded the scrap of paper, and placed it between the leaves of his pocket-book.
“My God!” he said, “what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpool to-night, and make inquiries there!”
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