Robert was standing before the inn, deliberating on what was best to be done, when the landlord came out after him.
“I forgot to tell you, Mr. Audley, as how your uncle called here five minutes after you was gone, and left a message, asking of you and the other gentleman to go down to dinner at the Court.”
“Then I shouldn’t wonder,” said Robert, “if George Talboys has gone down to the Court to call upon my uncle. It isn’t like him, but it’s just possible that he has done it.”
It was six o’clock when Robert knocked at the door of his uncle’s house. He did not ask to see any of the family, but inquired at once for his friend.
Yes, the servant told him; Mr. Talboys had been there at two o’clock or a little after.
“And not since?”
“No, not since.”
Was the man sure that it was at two Mr. Talboys called? Robert asked.
“Yes, perfectly sure. He remembered the hour because it was the servants’ dinner hour, and he had left the table to open the door to Mr. Talboys.
“Why, what can have become of the man?” thought Robert, as he turned his back upon the Court. “From two till six — four good hours — and no signs of him!”
If any one had ventured to tell Mr. Robert Audley that he could possibly feel a strong attachment to any creature breathing, that cynical gentleman would have elevated his eyebrows in supreme contempt at the preposterous notion. Yet here he was, flurried and anxious, bewildering his brain by all manner of conjectures about his missing friend; and false to every attribute of his nature, walking fast.
“I haven’t walked fast since I was at Eton,” he murmured, as he hurried across one of Sir Michael’s meadows in the direction of the village; “and the worst of it is, that I haven’t the most remote idea where I am going.”
Here he crossed another meadow, and then seating himself upon a stile, rested his elbows upon his knees, buried his face in his hands, and set himself seriously to think the matter out.
“I have it,” he said, after a few minutes’ thought; “the railway station!” He sprang over the stile, and started off in the direction of the little red brick building.
There was no train expected for another half hour, and the clerk was taking his tea in an apartment on one side of the office, on the door of which was inscribed in large, white letters, “Private.”
But Mr. Audley was too much occupied with the one idea of looking for his friend to pay any attention to this warning. He strode at once to the door, and rattling his cane against it, brought the clerk out of his sanctum in a perspiration from hot tea, and with his mouth full of bread and butter.
“Do you remember the gentleman that came down to Audley with me, Smithers?” asked Robert.
“Well, to tell you the real truth, Mr. Audley, I can’t say that I do. You came by the four o’clock, if you remember, and there’s always a good many passengers by that train.”
“You don’t remember him, then?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“That’s provoking! I want to know, Smithers, whether he has taken a ticket for London since two o’clock to-day. He’s a tall, broad-chested young fellow, with a big brown beard. You couldn’t well mistake him.”
“There was four or five gentlemen as took tickets for the 3.30 up,” said the clerk rather vaguely, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder at his wife, who looked by no means pleased at this interruption to the harmony of the tea-table.
“Four or five gentlemen! But did either of them answer to the description of my friend?”
“Well, I think one of them had a beard, sir.”
“A dark-brown beard?”
“Well, I don’t know, but it was brownish-like.”
“Was he dressed in gray?”
“I believe it was gray; a great many gents wear gray. He asked for the ticket sharp and short-like, and when he’d got it walked straight out onto the platform whistling.”
“That’s George,” said Robert. “Thank you, Smithers; I needn’t trouble you any more. It’s as clear as daylight,” he muttered, as he left the station; “he’s got one of his gloomy fits on him, and he’s gone back to London without saying a word about it. I’ll leave Audley myself to-morrow morning; and for to-night — why, I may as well go down to the Court and make the acquaintance of my uncle’s young wife. They don’t dine till seven; if I get back across the fields I shall be in time. Bob — otherwise Robert Audley — this sort of thing will never do; you are falling over head and ears in love with your aunt.”
Chapter 11
The Mark Upon My Lady’s Wrist.
Robert found Sir Michael and Lady Audley in the drawing-room. My lady was sitting on a music-stool before the grand piano, turning over the leaves of some new music. She twirled upon the revolving seat, making a rustling with her silk flounces, as Mr. Robert Audley’s name was announced; then, leaving the piano, she made her nephew a pretty, mock ceremonious courtesy.
“Thank you so much for the sables,” she said, holding out her little fingers, all glittering and twinkling with the diamonds she wore upon them; “thank you for those beautiful sables. How good it was of you to get them for me.”
Robert had almost forgotten the commission he had executed for Lady Audley during his Russian expedition. His mind was so full of George Talboys that he only acknowledged nay lady’s gratitude by a bow.
“Would you believe it, Sir Michael?” he said. “That foolish chum of mine has gone back to London leaving me in the lurch.”
“Mr. George Talboys returned to town?” exclaimed my lady, lifting her eyebrows. “What a dreadful catastrophe!” said Alicia, maliciously, “since Pythias, in the person of Mr. Robert Audley, cannot exist for half an hour without Damon, commonly known as George Talboys.”
“He’s a very good fellow,” Robert said, stoutly; “and to tell the honest truth, I’m rather uneasy about him.”
“Uneasy about him!” My lady was quite anxious to know why Robert was uneasy about his friend.
“I’ll tell you why, Lady Audley,” answered the young barrister. “George had a bitter blow a year ago in the death of his wife. He has never got over that trouble. He takes life pretty quietly — almost as quietly as I do — but he often talks very strangely, and I sometimes think that one day this grief will get the better of him, and he will do something rash.”
Mr. Robert Audley spoke vaguely, but all three of his listeners knew that the something rash to which he alluded was that one deed for which there is no repentance.
There was a brief pause, during which Lady
