‘You must go yourself, Benson, with Archibald and James. Take cloaks and umbrellas, and hurry down towards the cove. Mr. Blake and Miss Macrae have probably found shelter on the way somewhere.’
The butler answered, ‘Yes, sir;’ but he cannot have been very well pleased with his errand. Merton wanted to offer to go, anything to be occupied; but Bude said nothing, and so Merton did not speak.
The four in the drawing-room sat chatting nervously: ‘There was nothing of course to be anxious about,’ they told each other. The bolt of heaven never strikes the daughters of millionaires; Miss Macrae was indifferent to a wetting, and nobody cared tremulously about Blake. Indeed the words ‘confound the fellow’ were in the minds of the three men.
The evening darkened rapidly, the minutes lagged by, the clock chimed the half-hour, three-quarters, nine o’clock.
Mr. Macrae was manifestly growing more and more nervous, Merton forgot to grow more and more hungry. His tongue felt dry and hard; he was afraid of he knew not what, but he bravely tried to make talk with Lady Bude.
The door opened, letting the blaze of electric light from the hall into the darkling room. They all turned eagerly towards the door. It was only one of the servants. Merton’s heart felt like lead. ‘Mr. Benson has returned, sir; he would be glad if he might speak to you for a moment.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Mr. Macrae.
‘At the outer door, sir, in the porch. He is very wet.’
Mr. Macrae went out; the others found little to say to each other.
‘Very awkward,’ muttered Bude. ‘They cannot have been climbing the cliffs, surely.’