On the morrow Wilfrid was gone.

No one had seen him go.

Emilia, while she touched the keys of a muted piano softly in the morning quiet of the house, had heard the front-door close.

At that hour one attributes every noise to the servants.

She played on and waited patiently, till the housemaid expelled her into the dewy air.
The report from his bedchamber, telling the ladies of his absence, added that he had taken linen for a lengthened journey.
This curious retreat of my hero belongs to the order of things that are done 'None know why;' a curtain which drops conveniently upon either the bewilderment of the showman or the infirmities of the puppet.
I must own (though I need not be told what odium frowns on such a pretension to excess of cleverness) that I do know why.