who did knock? There’s been some one kicking up a row at that door for a quarter of an hour, I should think; you must have met him going down-stairs.”
“But I’m rather late this morning, sir, for I’ve been in Mr. Martin’s rooms first, and I’ve come straight from the floor above.”
“Then you didn’t see any one at the door, or on the stairs?”
“Not a mortal soul, sir.”
“Was ever anything so provoking?” said Robert. “To think that I should have let this person go away without ascertaining who he was, or what he wanted! How do I know that it was not some one with a message or a letter from George Talboys?”
“Sure if it was, sir, he’ll come again,” said Mrs. Maloney, soothingly.
“Yes, of course, if it was anything of consequence he’ll come again,” muttered Robert. The fact was, that from the moment of finding the telegraphic message at Southampton, all hope of hearing of George had faded out of his mind. He felt that there was some mystery involved in the disappearance of his friend — some treachery toward himself, or toward George. What if the young man’s greedy old father-in-law had tried to separate them on account of the monetary trust lodged in Robert Audley’s hands? Or what if, since even in these civilized days all kinds of unsuspected horrors are constantly committed — what if the old man had decoyed George down to Southampton, and made away with him in order to get possession of that £20,000, left in Robert’s custody for little Georgey’s use?
But neither of these suppositions explained the telegraphic message, and it was the telegraphic message which had filled Robert’s mind with a vague sense of alarm. The postman brought no letter from George Talboys, and the person who had knocked at the door of the chambers did not return between seven and nine o’clock, so Robert Audley left Figtree Court once more in search of his friend. This time he told the cabman to drive to the Euston Station, and in twenty minutes he was on the platform, making inquiries about the trains.
The Liverpool express had started half an hour before he reached the station, and he had to wait an hour and a quarter for a slow train to take him to his destination.
Robert Audley chafed cruelly at this delay. Half a dozen vessels might sail for Australia while he roamed up and down the long platform, tumbling over trucks and porters, and swearing at his ill-luck.
He bought the Times newspaper, and looked instinctively at the second column, with a morbid interest in the advertisements of people missing — sons, brothers, and husbands who had left their homes, never to return or to be heard of more.
There was one advertisement of a young man found drowned somewhere on the Lambeth shore.
What if that should have been George’s fate? No; the telegraphic message involved his father-in-law in the fact of his disappearance, and every speculation about him must start from that one point.
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Robert got into Liverpool; too late for anything except to make inquiries as to what vessel had sailed within the last two days for the antipodes.
An emigrant ship had sailed at four o’clock that afternoon — the Victoria Regia, bound for Melbourne.
The result of his inquiries amounted to this — If he wanted to find out who had sailed in the Victoria Regia, he must wait till the next morning, and apply for information of that vessel.
Robert Audley was at the office at nine o’clock the next morning, and was the first person after the clerks who entered it.
He met with every civility from the clerk to whom he applied. The young man referred to his books, and running his pen down the list of passengers who had sailed in the Victoria Regia, told Robert that there was no one among them of the name of Talboys. He pushed his inquiries further. Had any of the passengers entered their names within a short time of the vessel’s sailing?
One of the other clerks looked up from his desk as Robert asked this question. Yes, he said; he remembered a young man’s coming into the office at half-past three o’clock in the afternoon, and paying his passage money. His name was the last on the list — Thomas Brown.
Robert Audley shrugged his shoulders. There could have been no possible reason for George’s taking a feigned name. He asked the clerk who had last spoken if he could remember the appearance of this Mr. Thomas Brown.
No; the office was crowded at the time; people were running in and out, and he had not taken any particular notice of this last passenger.
Robert thanked them for their civility, and wished them good-morning. As he was leaving the office, one of the young men called after him:
“Oh, by-the-by, sir,” he said, “I remember one thing about this Mr. Thomas Brown — his arm was in a sling.”
There was nothing more for Robert Audley to do but to return to town. He re-entered his chambers at six o’clock that evening, thoroughly worn out once more with his useless search.
Mrs. Maloney brought him his dinner and a pint of wine from a tavern in the Strand. The evening was raw and chilly, and the laundress had lighted a good fire in the sitting-room grate.
After eating about half a mutton-chop, Robert sat with his wine untasted upon the table before him, smoking cigars and staring into the blaze.
“George Talboys never sailed for Australia,” he said, after long and painful reflection. “If he is alive, he is still in England; and if he is dead, his body is hidden in some corner of England.”
He sat for hours smoking and thinking — trouble and gloomy thoughts leaving a dark shadow upon his moody face, which neither the brilliant light of the gas nor the red blaze of the fire could dispel.
Very late in the evening he rose from his chair, pushed away the table, wheeled his desk over to the fire-place, took out a sheet of fools-cap, and dipped a pen in the ink.
But after doing this he paused, leaned his forehead upon his hand, and once more relapsed into thought.
“I shall draw up a record of all that has occurred between our going down to Essex and to-night, beginning at the very beginning.”
He drew up this record in short, detached sentences, which he numbered as he wrote.
It ran thus:
“Journal of Facts connected with the Disappearance of George Talboys, inclusive of Facts which have no apparent Relation to that Circumstance.”
In spite of the troubled state of his mind, he was rather inclined to be proud of the official appearance of this heading. He sat for some time looking at it with affection, and with the feather of his pen in his mouth. “Upon my word,” he said, “I begin to think that I ought to have pursued my profession, instead of dawdling my life away as I have done.”
He smoked half a cigar before he had got his thoughts in proper train, and then began to write:
“1. I write to Alicia, proposing to take George down to the Court.”
“2. Alicia writes, objecting to the visit, on the part of Lady Audley.”
“3. We go to Essex in spite of that
