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John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs Arabin at the hotel and had taken his travelling-bag to his own lodgings, started off for his uncle Toogood's house. There he found Mrs Toogood, not in the most serene state of mind as to her husband's absence. Mr Toogood had now been at Barchester for the best part of a week--spending a good deal of money at the inn. Mrs Toogood was quite sure that he must be doing that.

Indeed, how could he help himself? Johnny remarked that he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle was to help himself. And then Mr Toogood had only written one short scrap of a letter--just three words, and they were written in triumph. 'Crawley is all right, and I think I've got the real Simon Pure by the heels.' 'It's all very well, John,'

Mrs Toogood said; 'and of course it would be a terrible thing of the family if anybody connected with it were made out to be a thief.' 'It would be quite dreadful,' said Johnny. 'Not that I ever looked upon the Crawleys as connections of ours. But, however, let that pass. I'm sure I'm very glad that your uncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there's reason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell you that money is not so plenty in this house that your uncle can afford to throw it in the Barchester gutters. Think what twelve children are, John. It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if some lord had left him a fortune.' John Eames did not stay very long in Tavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy were gone to the play with Mr Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one of her best humours. He took his uncle's part as well as he could, and then left Mrs Toogood. The little allusion to Lord De Guest's generosity had not been pleasant to him. It seemed to rob him of all his own merit. He had been rather proud of his journey to Italy, having contrived to spend nearly forty pounds in ten days. He had done everything in the most expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laid out on behalf Mr Crawley. But, as Mrs Toogood had just told him, all this was nothing to what Toogood was doing. Toogood with twelve children was living at his own charges at Barchester and was neglecting his business besides. 'There's Mr Crump,' said Mrs Toogood. 'Of course he doesn't like it, and what can I say when he comes to me?' This was not quite fair on the part of Mrs Toogood, as Mr Crump had not troubled her even once as yet since her husband's departure.

What was Johnny to do, when he left Tavistock Square? His club was open to him. Should he go to his club, play a game of billiards, and have some supper? When he asked himself the question he knew that he would not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it, as he made his way to a cabstand in Tottenham Court Road. It would be slow, he told himself, to go to his club. He would have gone to Lily Dale, only that his intimacy with Mrs Thorne was not sufficient to justify his calling at her house between nine and ten o'clock at night. But, as he must go somewhere--and as his intimacy with Lady Demolines was, he thought, sufficient to justify almost anything--he would go to Bayswater. Iregret to say that he had written a mysterious not from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that he should be in London on this very night, and that it was just on the cards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace before he went to bed. The note was mysterious, because it had neither beginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It was written like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there could be no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favourite game. Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue. Madalina probably would have called it romance--because she was by nature romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this. He knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that he was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, by a little innocent pretence. He told himself that it was his nature to prefer the society of women to that of men. He would have liked the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss Demolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that moment, the society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute within his reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester Terrace. 'Is Lady Demolines at home?' he said to the servant. He always asked for Lady Demolines.

But the page who was accustomed to open the door for him was less false, being young, and would now tell him, without any further fiction, that Miss Madalina was in the drawing-room. Such was the answer he got from the page on this evening. What Madalina did with her mother on these occasions he had never yet discovered. There used to be some little excuses given about Lady Demolines' state of health, but latterly Madalina had discontinued her references to her mother's headaches. She was standing in the centre of the drawing-room when he entered it, with both her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mystery in her face. Her hair, however, had been very carefully arranged so as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, and altogether she was looking her best. 'Oh, John,' she said. She called him John by accident in the tumult of the moment. 'Have you heard what has happened?

But of course you have heard it.'

'Heard what? I have heard nothing,' said Johnny, arrested almost in the doorway by the nature of the question--and partly also, no doubt, by the tumult of the moment. He had no idea how terrible a tragedy was in truth in store for him; but he perceived that the moment was to be tumultuous, and that he must carry himself accordingly.

'Come in and close the door,' she said. He came in and closed the door.

'Do you mean to say that you haven't heard what has happened in Hook Court?'