It was agreed, finally, to go and consult Mrs. Ormsby, on whom the task of breaking the tragical surmise to the ladies would fall.
Justine had been carried into a conservatory, to get her out of the way, and left there with a couple of housemaids.
A sad procession scrambled back to the house—a somewhat noisy one, for every one had some eager, excited remark to make, or some wondering exclamation to utter.
Mrs. Ormsby was at the top of the broad flight of steps at the principal entrance, watching for the earliest information. She did not venture to remain near Lady Quaintree or Mrs. Dormer, but stood midway, as it were, between the terrified ladies and the band of explorers. As they approached, she could plainly see the search had been unsuccessful.
Two or three eagerly came in advance of their fellows, their mouths and eyes wide open, their visages full of excitement.
They had not yet begun to make their story intelligible, however, when a loud shout, in a boyish treble, made every one look round; and a thick-set lout was seen running toward them, waving his hands in sign that his business was of a most urgent nature, that would not brook delay. This boy was George Netherclift.
He had, they all felt at once, come with some news of the missing ones. But what kind of news? Were they to hear confirmation of a tragedy? Or were the young ladies safe and sound?
George Netherclift had been running the latter part of the way, and was considerably out of breath. As he paused, he glanced from one of the servants to another, in doubt as to which to address.
“Well, boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Ormsby, in a sharp tone, “what do you want? Speak quickly!”
“Zoombody to bring thay young ladies from thay ould abbey,” said the boy. “Be quick, if ’ee please. They’ll be main tired waiting.”