It was hardly possible to doubt that something must have
happened, which she had reasons--serious reasons, as it seemed only too
natural to infer--for keeping concealed from Mountjoy. Try as he might
to disguise it from himself, he now knew how dear, how hopelessly dear,
she was to him by the anxiety that he suffered, and by the jealous
sense of injury which defied his self-command. His immediate
superintendence of the workmen at the cottage was no longer necessary.
Leaving there a representative whom he could trust, he resolved to
answer his last letter, received from Iris, in person.
The next day he was in London.
Calling at the house, he was informed that Miss Henley was not at home,
and that it was impossible to say with certainty when she might return.
While he was addressing his inquiries to the servant, Mr. Henley opened
the library door. "Is that you, Mountjoy?" he asked. "Come in: I want
to speak to you."
Short and thick-set, with a thin-lipped mouth, a coarsely-florid
complexion, and furtive greenish eyes; hard in his manner, and harsh in
his voice; Mr. Henley was one of the few heartless men, who are
innocent of deception on the surface: he was externally a person who
inspired, at first sight, feelings of doubt and dislike.
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