Wharton! He knew him--had read him long ago--read him afresh of late.

Raeburn's lip showed the contempt, the bitterness which the philosopher could not repress, showed also the humiliation of the lover.

Here was he, banished from Marcella; here was Wharton, in possession of her mind and sympathies, busily forging a link-- "It shall be _broken!_" said Raeburn to himself with a sudden fierce concentration of will.

"So much I will claim--and enforce." But not now, nothing now, but patience, delicacy, prudence.

He gathered himself together with a long breath, and went his way.
* * * * * For the rest, the clash of motives and affections he felt and foresaw in this matter of the Disley murders, became day by day more harassing.