DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME.

“£200 REWARD. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight small diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘Sans espoir je meurs.’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the 14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe, Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according to the value of the information received.”

The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy manufacturing town.

Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying and selling, to stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort.

Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the 14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of her, and it was, as the country people expressed it in their broad Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost.

Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence.

The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden; heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then luncheon, then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now, well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that might come.

“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the last of poor Amy, and looking right and left in the hedges, as though she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is positively mad after her.”

“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my lady”—

“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady, however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station, was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the handbills.”

And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces, are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to his father.

As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander tree, and called me her own Frank; and then, coquette as she is, the next minute she told me she meant her own brother Frank—I had been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!” And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.”

“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder. (“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play here—some deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through till I find her, living or dead.’”

CHAPTER II.

WHILE the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh broken-hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and the sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. The servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and never seeming to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of china-painting accessories, and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop.

From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might be heard every hour of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another.

“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of his life,” as he was wont to call her.

And now all was changed! The music was hushed, the sunlight had died out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept waiting an instant?”

So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning canter.

Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be imagined. She was very tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his.

“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing was known, nor could be discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her.

“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others opening here and there a door of hope, all full of warm and earnest sympathy, and offers of help.

“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at Mr. Warden’s disposal.

“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and supposing.”

“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn tread, as though serving at a funeral feast.

“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see him at once.”

Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and spreads his memoranda before him.

“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it amounts to very little. The only additional information I have obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on that day, and he at once admitted he could not be positive, as it was the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my case book.”

“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.”

“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with the names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.”

“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold out to me—no advice of any sort to give?”

“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the hope I hold out to you.”

“Then, if not dead, worse than death has happened to her,” groans the poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than dishonour.”

For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? let me have that, at any rate.”

“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions are aroused in the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the best of my ability.”

“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can be done before you leave us?”

“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, upwards—take their names, ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I will undertake to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience who will hide it from my eye.”

Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the detective.

Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements made.”

First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very red, and very much ashamed of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks.

The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss Warden’s maid is.

“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.”

“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?”

“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at her master.

“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr. Hill, sympathetically. “That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any case I must see her.”

Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young mistress’s style.

Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, he should have been compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted.

“Your name, if you please?” he asks.

“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his fixed gaze.

“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?”

“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.”

“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for America?”

Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. “How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know of my brother Tom? He may be dead and buried for anything I care.”

“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this house on the morning of the 15th of August.”

Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an appeal to Mr. Warden.

“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted in this way in your presence?” she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears.

“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too far.”

“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room.

Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the advice I have already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are aroused, communicate with me.”

And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.”

CHAPTER III.

IT seemed strange, at first, to the good people of Harleyford to see young Lord Hardcastle and the rector’s son daily in close and friendly intercourse, accustomed, as they were, to see each politely ignored by the other, or else spoken of in terms of supercilious contempt. It was certainly a strange sight to see the young men constantly walking side by side in earnest conversation, or else riding to and from each other’s houses. Lord Hardcastle’s weakness had hitherto been near-sightedness whenever Varley had happened to cross his path. “Who was that you recognized just now?” he would say to a companion, if he happened to have one at the time, and on being informed it was the rector’s son, would remark, carelessly—

“Oh, the young giant whose brains have run into muscle; let us talk of something interesting.”

Frank Varley, in his turn, would speak in no measured terms of “that kid-gloved dandy—that embodiment of priggishness and polite literature.”

But now all was changed. A common sorrow had drawn them to each other, and their intense and true love for, and devotion to poor Amy, had rendered them so far unselfish as to enable them to work together with determination and courage.

Mr. Warden’s reply to their letter had been a brief, “Come and see me; we will talk the matter over.” And arm in arm the young men had responded to his invitation.

“I am very grateful to you both,” was Mr. Warden’s greeting, “I know not how to express my thanks; but what can any one do that has not been already done?”

“See here, Mr. Warden,” broke in Frank, impetuously, “I don’t care what other people have or have not done, I must do something. I shall go mad if I sit here idle any longer. I have no doubt that detective fellow you had from London did his work superlatively well, but still it is possible he may have left something undone. Let me ride through your plantations once more; let me have men down here, and drag over again that cursed water, yonder.” He pointed through the window to a silvery little stream which flowed at the bottom of Mr. Warden’s lawn and flower garden. Deep water it was here and there, and here and there clogged with long grasses and rushes; but on and on it went, until at length it fell into the noble river upon which the town of Dunwich is built.

“My poor fellow, do it if you will,” is Mr. Warden’s reply, “do it a hundred times over, if it is any gratification to you; I fear the result will be the same to your efforts as to mine. But tell me in your turn, have you nothing to suggest? You, Lord Hardcastle, have the reputation of having more brains than most of us, tell me if you can propose anything to lighten this terrible time of suspense? Have you thought well over the possibilities and impossibilities of this dreadful affair, and do you see any glimmer of hope anywhere for us?”

“Have I thought well over it?” repeats Hardcastle; “you might better ask me, ‘do I ever think of anything else?’ for day and night no other thought ever enters my mind; hour after hour do I sit thinking over, and weighing in turn, each circumstance, however slight, which has occurred in connection with the loss of your daughter. I have looked at the matter, not only from my own point of view, and worked out my own theories threadbare, but have endeavoured to put myself, as it were, in other people’s bodies, to hear the matter with their ears, and see it with their eyes! and then have I exhausted every possible or impossible theory which they might have. Nowhere, alas, can I see any clue to the mystery. Indeed, each day that passes renders it more terrible and difficult. It is impossible she can be dead”—

He pauses abruptly; large drops of perspiration stand out upon his forehead, and his outstretched hand trembles with suppressed emotion. “Had she been lying dead anywhere in the whole land, her body would by this time have been brought to you, or at any rate news of how and where she died.”

“Hush, hush!” breaks in Mr. Warden pitifully, as, pale and tottering, he catches hold of Lord Hardcastle’s arm; “don’t speak to me in this way, Hardcastle, or you will kill me outright; this last month has made an old man of me, and a feather’s weight would knock me over now. If you can see more clearly than any of us what lies in the future, for mercy’s sake hold back the blow as long as possible.”

There is a pause of some minutes; at last, Varley jumps to his feet, impatiently—

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” he exclaims, “don’t croak any more than you can help, but help us a little with your wisdom and advice. I have Mr. Warden’s permission to travel over the old ground again, and we are to commence this very hour; tell us what you purpose doing?”

“I shall wait and watch,” replies Hardcastle, unconsciously repeating Mr. Hill’s own words, “the clue will discover itself somewhere, somehow, when we least expect it; here, more likely, than anywhere else; and it needs a hearing ear and a seeing eye to seize and follow it up. You may wander hither and thither, if you will, I shall remain here, and wait and watch.”

“Strange,” said Mr. Warden, musingly, “your words are the echo of what was said to me yesterday, by the professional detective I employed.” Then he related to them in detail the examination of the servants by Mr. Hill, and his parting advice.

“Have the girl, Williams, in at once, Mr. Warden,” exclaims Frank, “question her as to what she has, or has not done; let me,” he adds, eagerly, “ask her one or two questions; depend upon it, they will be to the point.”

But to this the two other gentlemen object, Mr. Warden considering it an unjust thing to attach suspicion to the girl on account of the misdeeds of her brother; and Lord Hardcastle alleging that by so doing they would defeat their own object by putting the girl on her guard. “Let us wait and watch,” once more he implores. But Frank shakes his head, “Waiting and watching may suit some men,” he says, “but for me it is an impossibility. I must do something, and at once, or I shall blow my brains out; that is, if I have any,” he adds, with a grim smile, and a shrug of his shoulders.

Forthwith he departs to organize a body of volunteers once more to scour the whole county—to search commons and through woods—to cut fern and furze from shady hollows and dark corners, where, by any chance, a secret might be hidden. Once more to drag rivers and streams, and search under hedges, and in reed-grown ditches; and finally to question and re-question every man, woman, and child far or near, as to their recollection of the day’s occurrences of the 14th of August.

This was the plan of action Frank had sketched out for himself, and bravely indeed, did he carry it out. Volunteers by the score came forward, for the sympathy expressed for Mr. Warden was heartfelt, and Amy’s loss had cast a gloom over the whole county. Not a man or woman in the country side but what would have gone to the other end of the world to have lifted from the sorrowing father and mother this dark cloud of suspense. As for the young lady herself, they would have laid down their lives for her; for her kindly, pleasant ways and pretty queenly airs, had won all hearts. And thus, high and low, rich and poor joined hands with Frank Varley, and searched with a will, working early, and working late—earnest men, at earnest work.

CHAPTER IV.

AT this time Lord Hardcastle began to be a daily visitor at the High Elms. “My own house is very dreary to me,” he had said, “may I come to you very often for an hour or so, without feeling I am intruding?” And Mr. Warden had bade him welcome, but had warned him that he would find the High Elms more than “dreary.” “To me the place is silent and gloomy as a vault or grave-yard,” he said, “but I am sure the presence of a real friend like yourself will be a great comfort to Mrs. Warden, now that I am such a poor companion for her.” Thus, it came to pass that daily, about noon, Lord Hardcastle might be seen riding up the steep avenue which led to Mr. Warden’s house, returning generally about dusk to his solitary dinner, for being an orphan, and without any near relative, and naturally of a studious, reserved disposition, his privacy was very seldom broken into by chance visitors, or casual acquaintances.

As time went on, however, he frequently accepted Mr. Warden’s invitation to dine and sleep at his house; and on these occasions he would devote the entire morning to Mrs. Warden and her occupations; generally after lunch walking or riding with Mr. Warden. Thus, a week or ten days slipped away; Frank Varley and his band of volunteers working hard meantime. Then suddenly, an unexpected calamity befel the village of Harleyford—an epidemic of small-pox broke out, and threatened to be of a virulent nature. A groom of Mr. Warden’s, calling on one of the villagers, caught the disease, and returned to the High Elms, only to sicken and die. Mr. Warden, habitually kind and thoughtful to his dependants, had had the best local medical advice that could be procured, and in addition, nurses, and all approved disinfectants, &c., from the Dunwich Fever Hospital. Yet, in spite of these precautions, Lord Hardcastle, one morning, on entering the house, was met by the housekeeper with a face so long and melancholy he could see at once some fresh calamity had occurred.

“What is it, Mrs. Nesbitt?” he enquired, without waiting for the old lady to speak, “Has your master or mistress taken the infection, or if not, what has happened?”

“Both, I fear, sir, are seized,” replied the housekeeper, sadly; “I have sent for Doctor Mills and Doctor Hayward, and two additional nurses from the hospital; but as yet, no one has come. And oh, sir! something else has happened: Lucy Williams has disappeared in some mysterious manner; not a soul has seen her since last night. It seems, indeed,” added the old lady, clasping her hands, while the tears rained from her eyes, “as though a curse had fallen upon the house. Where will it all end! Heaven knows: I tremble to think who may be taken next.”

This was startling news indeed, although, perhaps, nothing more than might have been expected from the state of affairs at the High Elms. Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health had been considerably shaken by the days and nights of suspense they had passed through. Consequently it would not be a matter of surprise if they were the next to fall victims to the disease.

Then again with regard to Lucy Williams, were they not watching the girl, and waiting for her to make a move in some direction?

However, there was no time to be lost in speculation, there was work to be done. Lord Hardcastle wrote a brief note to Varley—

“Leave off your searching and dragging at once; there is something else for you to do. Lucy Williams has disappeared. Come over immediately. I will have all necessary information collected, and ready to place in your hands by the time you arrive. This, if you will, you can convey to Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. It may save time. Start, if possible, by the 2.10 p.m. train.

“HARDCASTLE.”

This note he despatched by one of the grooms, mounting the man on his own horse, a high-bred roan, which knew how to go like the wind when need was. Unfortunately there was some uncertainty as to where Varley was to be found. The rectory in those days saw but little of him, and his work had lately taken him to a woodland some four or five miles distant.

Hither the man, by Lord Hardcastle’s direction, rode in quest, only, unfortunately, to see the volunteers returning by different routes, after another fruitless search. On enquiry, he found that Varley had ridden still farther on to the nearest post-town, most likely on some false scent.

Hither again the man followed him, and, fortunately, met him slowly riding towards home, thinking, perhaps, of another day of useless search ended, and where it would be best to recommence on the morrow.

He read Hardcastle’s note, and then looked at his watch. The hands pointed at two o’clock.

“Here,” he exclaimed in a perfect whirl of passion and vexation, “have I been wasting precious time over this confounded woodland, and the real work waiting for me! That girl will have twenty-four hours start of us. No train till 6.30 to-night! Arrive at London about nine o’clock. The police, I suppose, set to work the first thing in the morning! The girl has a fair chance of escape, I must say, but, thank Heaven, there is something definite to be done at last! Here,” he called to the groom, “ride alongside of me, and tell me all that is to be known about the girl Williams and her flight!”

But the man had little, or nothing, to tell beyond the fact that the girl had gone. All his information had been obtained at second-hand, and, like the housekeeper and other servants, the man seemed almost bewildered with the strange events occurring in such rapid succession in the household.

Meantime Lord Hardcastle was carefully collecting all the information that was to be had relative to the girl’s disappearance, questioning each of the servants in succession.

It appeared she had taken her supper with the other servants as usual at 10 o’clock on the previous night, or rather had attempted to do so, for she complained of feeling very ill, of pains in her head and back, and declared she was unable to eat. One of the maids had taunted her by enquiring whether it was the same sort of head-ache she had had when Detective Hill was in the house. This was met by an indignant rejoinder, and then the girl angrily left the room, as the others thought, to go to bed. The next morning she did not make her appearance at the servants’ breakfast, and the housekeeper, with whom Lucy was somewhat a favourite, determined to allow her a little latitude, thinking possibly the girl might really need rest and quiet.

Time slipped by, and Mrs. Nesbitt, occupied in household matters, did not again think of Lucy Williams until about half-past ten; then going to her room to enquire for her, found the door locked, and received no reply to her repeated knockings. Without consulting her master, she desired one of the men to break open the door, and entering, found that the bed had not been slept in, and the room in a great state of confusion. They had not had time to inform their master of the fact, before his bell was rung hurriedly, and he gave orders that Dr. Hayward should immediately be sent for, as Mrs. Warden and he were feeling far from well. “Stricken in body, as well as mind, Nesbitt,” he had said sadly. “It doesn’t matter much, there is not a great deal left to live for now.”

Mrs. Nesbitt had not dared to inform him of the fresh calamities. “And I am indeed thankful, sir,” added the poor old lady, “that you have come into the house to lift some of this heavy responsibility off my shoulders.”

“Let me see Lucy’s room, Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Lord Hardcastle.

The housekeeper immediately conducted him to the servants’ quarters.

“Is this exactly the condition in which you found the room?” he enquired, as Nesbitt threw back the door for him to enter.

“Indeed, sir, and I grieve to say that it is,” she replied. “To think that any young girl in this house could leave a room in such a state is more than I can understand,” and she sighed again.

Lord Hardcastle looked attentively round. A box, half open, and the contents partially drawn out, stood at the foot of the bed. A dress, bonnet and walking jacket lay upon a chair, evidently thrown there in a hurry, and a whole pile of burned letters was heaped in the fire-grate. Here and there the charred scraps had been fluttered on to the floor, most likely by the rapid passing and re-passing of the girl while preparing for her flight.

“And to think that we might all of us have been burned in our beds last night,” moaned the housekeeper, “for aught she cared, the wicked girl!”

“Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt,” interrupts Lord Hardcastle, “do you know the extent of Lucy Williams’s wardrobe? how many bonnets or hats had she do you think?”

“It’s that which puzzles me, sir. I know for certain, she had but two, for she told me only yesterday, she would not buy another just now, in case we might have to go into mourning for our dear young lady, and she complained that both were so shabby she was ashamed to be seen in them. And there they both are; she must have left the house with nothing on her head.”

“Or else in some one else’s!” remarks Lord Hardcastle. “It was yesterday you say she spoke of her hats; from her remarks I should imagine her flight was not thought of until suggested by the taunts of the other maid. Consequently her plans would not be properly matured nor well laid. So much the better for our chance of finding her. Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt, could you or any one else speak as to the contents of Miss Warden’s wardrobe, and had Lucy Williams any means of access to it.”

“She had sole charge of it, sir, after our dear young lady left. You see Mrs. Warden and every one else so liked and trusted Lucy that everything was left in her hands, except the jewel case, which was removed to Mrs. Warden’s room. I don’t believe any one but Lucy could speak for a certainty as to what Miss Warden had or had not.”

“We will go now, if you please, to Miss Warden’s room,” says Lord Hardcastle, giving one more glance at the untidy chamber. “This door must be secured and sealed till the police have seen the room. I will see if by any chance she has left any letters behind her.”

But on looking through the drawers and boxes no papers of any sort are to be found, and it seems to the housekeeper, that few if any of the girl’s clothes have been removed.

In an hour’s time, Lord Hardcastle has a small packet of carefully written notes ready for Varley’s assistance and guidance.

“I have not time,” he wrote, “to give you in detail the bases upon which my suppositions rest, I have simply dotted down one or two facts which I have ascertained beyond doubt, and one or two ideas which may perhaps be useful to you.

“In the first place, the girl’s flight if intended at some future period, was certainly not thought of for to-day, until late last night. This I am sure of from the hurried and scanty nature of her preparations.

“Secondly, she has not gone away in her own clothes, but most likely in Miss Warden’s; at any rate in one of Miss Warden’s bonnets and walking jackets.

“Thirdly, she has most probably appropriated other properties of Miss Warden’s, as the young lady’s room and its contents have been left in her sole charge.

“Hence it follows (fourthly), that she has probably taken the train to London, travelling by the first this morning, as she would be anxious to dispose of her spoil and would only dare to do so in the metropolis.

“Fifthly, the girl has gone away very ill. My own impression is, that the small-pox is in her system, and that she will not hold up as far as to London.

“Sixthly, her only friend in London, as far as can be ascertained, is a Miss or Mrs. Kempe, who resides at 15, Gresham Street North, High Street, Hackney.”

CHAPTER V.

DR. HAYWARD’S report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through had completely undermined his constitution—

“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he added (he had known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them, as far as possible, the details of this sad business.”

So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand, as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus voluntarily sharing the dreariness and desolation of their home. Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn, nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?”

And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves into his mind, which he felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly at a loss to imagine where.

Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent.

The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own, and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain.

Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had left by the first train on that morning—

“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time, sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.”

Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very easy to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train. The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney, where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely slipped his memory.

Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive to Gresham Street, Hackney.

An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern suburb—a terra incognita to Frank, whose knowledge of London was limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers, machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people. Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty years of age, very neatly dressed, and with a look of settled anxiety and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest.

“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.”

She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the woman’s hand—

“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also want your friend, and must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once to where she is.”

“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—”

“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the grate.

A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice—

“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then, clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed—

“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell back exhausted, evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again and again, “Tom, only for Tom.”

Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush, Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her—

“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a doctor in?”

“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since Lucy came into the house I have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins; but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.”

“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend, and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell him I will be answerable for all charges.”

“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and penitence.” Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her friend’s life.

Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone—

“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a question, will you try to answer it?”

The girl started up in bed with a loud cry, “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, evidently mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily.

Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, “I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, and she tossed wildly from side to side.

It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn out bed in the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies.

“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for his safety.

At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly; do you suppose I can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with the doctor, turned with him towards the bed.

The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face, then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.”

“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she suffering from?”

“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case; something on her mind, too, I should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give her some necessary directions.

And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively, “as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your profession has nothing to do.”

“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle through the narrow panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she will never waken. She will never speak again.”

Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,” he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need interpretation.”

So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss Kempe, on her knees at the bedside, prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?”

“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you must let me stay here by the window.”

And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made his escape into the fresh air.

He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the house and the woman there.”

“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect she is mixed up in the affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of a fanatic.”

“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to communicate with her through this woman.”

“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl here? I was beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.”

“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; including, as a matter of course, the first foreign or country letter she receives.”

“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find work for me, I must find it for myself.”

“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,” the Detective added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.”

“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this, Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket.

“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?”

“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases the maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the diamonds for instance—”

“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story as that, Hill.”

“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed muscles.

Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought.

“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!”

CHAPTER VI.

SHORTLY after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus—

“MY DEAREST BOY,—

“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity, you would be starting off on some long journey, and it would be weeks or months before there would be any means of communicating with you.

“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense.

“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us unaccountable) and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some mésalliance, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned, is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife.

“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable. We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long unoccupied.

“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far too frisky for your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news that you will soon be amongst us again.

“Ever, with much love,

“Your affectionate mother,

“GRACE VARLEY.”

Then there followed a long postscript.

“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like the Frank of old times, but I tell her a mother’s description of her only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees you, and judge for herself. Adieu.”

“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!”

Then he wrote a short reply.

“DEAREST MOTHER,—

“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me to give up. Thanks for all your news.

“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of Mary Burton, but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and sweethearts just now.

“With a great deal of love,

“Your affectionate son,

“FRANK VARLEY.”

Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it.

“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you think he is worth waiting for?”

And Mary had confessed that she thought he was worth waiting for, and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? There was no rival beauty in her way now!

Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief summary of events at Harleyford—

“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old strength and energy.

“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and decided. I fail to see matters in the light in which Hill, in his report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed.

“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.”

Frank growled tremendously over this letter—

“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?”

What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all that occurred to break the day’s monotony.

Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene.

“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner.

“A bien-tôt, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously fascinating? With Varley, generally speaking, her manner had been that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, threatening sky.

“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, “Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting up this afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to see you at once in the morning room.”

Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen.

Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall certainly have.” As he spoke, a crash of thunder shook the house from basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed in quick succession.

“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice had grown alarmingly faint and weak.

“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang through the room. The dog himself trembled violently and began to sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with me as long as you can.”

Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly departed on his mission.

And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash lighted up the otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. “We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from “Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the lightning played about the room.

“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm, and to-night I feel so happy, as if I were beginning my girl’s life over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!”

“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass. How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!”

And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,” said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he let the dog out into the stormy night.

The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to be sinking into a sweet sound sleep.

“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her nerves.”

“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the end to come.

Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass.

He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue silk!

CHAPTER VII.

MRS. WARDEN passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark night.

“Find, ‘Presto,’ find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But “Presto” needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty kept up with the eager hound, who turns neither to the right nor to the left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles.

“Which way, ‘Presto?’ Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and in another instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to the house.

“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be struggling in the dark flood.

What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, true-hearted lover kneel by her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up for ever to the shadows, the doubt, the darkness of the grave.

They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey face. Silent, hopeless, and awe-stricken the father and lover gazed upon their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. Kneeling as he would to his sovereign, he takes her damp, cold hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “sans espoir je meurs,” only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring!

They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “Aimée.”

CHAPTER VIII.

THE news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious on a bed of fever.

Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was staying, and he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger.

“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an hour’s notice.”

And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the delirium of brain fever.

Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing.

“He may pull through yet, madam,” said the good old doctor, addressing Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue, with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies.

And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided, and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out of danger.

But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw the look of utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor Amy and her terrible ending.

“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.”

Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the sorrows of others.

“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,” continued his mother. “You must forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching yours very sadly for many a day and night.”

“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have nothing left to live for now!”

“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and as a daughter she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin. Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me, Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your ingratitude.”

“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously. “Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.”

“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his mother, very sweetly, “but if you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.”

“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke me, I think.”

“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for your mother’s sake, for what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added, after a pause.

Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs. Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary.

Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then, for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown.

“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to rise.

“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an invalid, and must not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted to see me. What is it, Frank?”

“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and sobbed like a child.

“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.”

Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and comforted him.

Disappeared From Her Home: A Novel