It has been remarked more than once that truth is stranger than fiction; certainly no one, however highly imaginative, would have planned out a stranger and more improbable game of cross-purposes than was played by Trafford and Norman that night.

Trafford had wandered about in a Heaven-forsaken way from his rooms to the club, and through the park, just missing Norman by a minute or two; possessed by that restlessness which insomnia by night and brooding over his troubles by day had superinduced. If the porter had been in when Trafford wandered into the club on the second occasion, he would have heard of Norman’s call and inquiry for him, and the two men would have met, explanations would have ensued, and some portion of the awful load would have been lifted from Trafford’s mind. But the porter had gone out to meet[263] the young woman to whom he was engaged, and had not transferred Norman’s message to the footman.

Trafford sat in a corner of the smoking-room moodily smoking for half an hour; then, as if unable to remain quiet for a longer period, got up and wandered out again. Esmeralda was never absent from his mind for a moment, and as he strode along the deserted paths under the trees in the park, he asked himself how he could best begin the search. An advertisement in the papers would be of no avail, even if she saw it; the private detective was not to be thought of for a moment. He did not know where to look for her—and Norman.

He went back to the club, and after smoking another cigar, he had a cab called and told the man to drive to Waterloo, half resolved to take Lilias into his confidence and seek her advice.

As he drove to the station, the cabman opened the trap-door in the roof and thrust down an evening paper.

“Like to see the paper, sir? Holocaust’s won.”

Trafford thanked the man and glanced at the paper absently. And suddenly, amongst the shipping advertisements, two words struck through his vacant eye upon his mind. They struck with the force of a revelation. The words were “Australia,” “Melbourne.” The thought of Three Star flashed upon him at once.

It was to Three Star, to her old friends, to the guardian of whom she always spoke so gratefully and lovingly, that Esmeralda had gone!

He cursed himself for a fool for not having thought of it before, and startled the cabby by jerking up the trap-door, and in a voice that trembled with excitement telling him to drive to the city office of the agents of the shipping company.

It was not the cabman’s business to tell his fare that the office would be closed, and Trafford did not think of the lateness of the hour until he was in front of the shut-up office. He sat and stared at it moodily for a moment or two, then he remembered that another address, at the docks, was given in the advertisement; and he told the cabman to drive there.

He felt that he could not gain much time by posting down at that time of the night; but he could not wait until the morning; he was doing something, commencing to search, at any rate.

When he arrived at the docks he was directed to the “E” side, and found a small crowd of men lingering about with that appearance of reaction which follows close upon extra[264] exertion and excitement. He made his way to the agent’s office and found a young man just locking up for the night. He stared at Trafford’s haggard face, and as he listened to the sharp, stern questions as to the next vessel, at once concluded that Trafford was a criminal escaping from justice.

“If you’d been an hour and a half earlier you could have gone with the ‘Neptune,’” he said, with a smile. “She has only just left the dock. A fine vessel, too; one of our fastest.”

Trafford frowned impatiently.

“When does the next sail?” he asked.

“Thursday morning,” replied the clerk. As he spoke he turned over the passenger’s list mechanically.

“No, you wouldn’t have been able to go by the ‘Neptune,’ though, for she was full up. Her last two berths were taken this afternoon.”

“Is there none before Thursday?” asked Trafford, wearily.

“Not from here. The Blue Ball liner leaves Liverpool to-morrow,” said the clerk, reluctantly—his company was the White Ball. “You might catch her; but she’s not a particularly good ship, and not fast; nothing to be compared to ours.”

Trafford leaned against the desk; he was feeling the sinking, exhausted sensation which comes from want of food, too many cigars, and much mental travail, an............