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was Thursday night—a night of cold, steady rain. Edgar had dined alone, and given orders that the motor should come round after dinner to take him up to town. The burden of his suspicions had become intolerable, and he could no longer resist testing them. Though sane reasoning told him that Lucia was at Ashdown with Mouse, and Charlie was in London with Maud, he could no longer pay any attention to sane reasoning, and he did not believe these things. Should his test fail, should he find no grounds for all that he suspected, he had fully made up his mind what to do—namely, to confess to Lucia all that had turned these last weeks into hell for him, and throw himself on her generosity, imploring her forgiveness.

The test he had devised was simple enough. He meant to drive to Charlie's house, ask the servant whether he was in, and whether Lucia had been there. If Charlie was in, and Lucia had not been there, that would be sufficient for him; for during these last two days all the suspicions which had been vague and indefinite had hardened and crystallized, and he believed that they would be together. But if Charlie was not in, he meant to drive to his own house in Prince's Gate, and ask there if Lucia had come up to town, or if Charlie had been there. If those questions were answered negatively, again his test would have failed, and he would throw himself on Lucia's generosity, confessing all, even to this last meanness, holding nothing whatever back.

The drive would not take more than three hours, and he expected and had planned to arrive in town about midnight. The car was a large one, and on the top and in the luggage-box behind was all that he meant to take abroad with him. Beside the chauffeur sat his own valet, and he had the inside of the car to himself. He had brought a book with him, for the electric light inside made reading easy, but the journey was half over before he