Fanny returned to London. Partly, the slenderness of her resources gave

her no choice; partly, she had learned all there was to learn, and

would do no good by staying longer at Passy.

She arrived with thirty shillings left out of Mr. Mountjoy's timely

gift. She sought a cheap lodging, and found a room, among people who

seemed respectable, which she could have for four-and-sixpence a week,

with board at a shilling a day. This settled, she hastened to Mr.

Mountjoy's hotel brimful of her news for Mrs. Vimpany.

Everyone knows the disappointment when the one person in the world whom

you want at the moment to see and to talk with proves to be out. Then

the news has to be suppressed; the conclusions, the suspicions, the

guesses have to be postponed; the active brain falls back upon itself.

This disappointment--almost as great as that at Berne--was experienced

by Fanny Mere at the hotel.

Mr. Mountjoy was no longer there.

The landlady of the hotel, who knew Fanny, came out herself and told

her what had happened.

"He was better," she said, "but still weak. They sent him down to

Scotland in Mrs. Vimpany's care. He was to travel by quick or slow

stages, just as he felt able. And I've got the address for you. Here it

is. Oh! and Mrs. Vimpany left a message. Will you, she says, when you

write, send the letter to her and not to him? She says, you know why."

Fanny returned to her lodging profoundly discouraged. She was filled

with this terrible secret that she had discovered. The only man who

could advise at this juncture was Mr. Mountjoy, and he was gone. And

she knew not what had become of her mistress. What could she do? The

responsibility was more than she could bear.

The conversation with the French nurse firmly established one thing in

her mind. The man who was buried in the cemetery of Auteuil with the

name of Lord Harry Norland on a headstone, the man who had lingered so

long with pulmonary disease, was the man whose death she had witnessed.

It was Oxbye the Dane. Of that there could be no doubt. Equally there

was no doubt in her own mind that he had been poisoned by the

doctor--by Mrs. Vimpany's husband--in the presence and, to all

appearance, with the consent and full knowledge of Lord Harry himself.

Then her mistress was in the power of these two men--villains who had

now added murder to their other crimes. As for herself, she was alone,

almost friendless; in a week or two she would be penniless. If she told

her tale, what mischief might she not do? If she was silent, what

mischief might not follow?




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