‘I know,’ the lady went on, ‘that they were only going down to the cove—where you and I were yesterday evening, Mr. Merton. It is no distance.’
‘A mile and a half is a good deal in this weather, said Merton, ‘and there is no cottage on this side of the sea loch. But they must have taken shelter,’ he added; he must not seem anxious.
At this moment came a flash of lightning, followed by a crack like that of a cosmic whip-lash, and a long reverberating roar of thunder.
‘It is most foolish to have stayed out so late,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘Any one could see that a storm was coming. I told them so, I am really annoyed.’
Every one was silent, the rain fell straight and steady, the gravel in front of the window was a series of little lakes, pale and chill in the wan twilight.
‘I really think I must send a couple of men down with cloaks and umbrellas,’ said the nervous father, pressing an electric knob.
The butler appeared.
‘Are Donald and Sandy and Murdoch about?’ asked Mr. Macrae.
‘Not returned from church, sir;’ said the butler.
‘There was likely to be a row at the Free Kirk,’ said Mr. Macrae, absently.