"About two months ago. They were here in May. I love Marjorie, and I wish I could see her again, but there's little hope of it. She wrote to me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer."
"Yes, that is their plan," said Cousin Jack.
He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.
But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie's safety, because of anything he had said.
"She isn't there," he said, quietly; "but I still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look."
But what a direction! Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to find Grandma Maynard's house, and not getting there! Where had she been all night? Where was she now?
There were no answers to these questions. And now Mr. Maynard took the helm. He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly.
"Helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. Keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been. King, I am going out to find Marjorie. You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your care. You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother. Ethel, I'd be glad if you would stay here with Helen, and, Jack,—will you come with me?"
"Of course," replied Mr. Bryant.
"And, King," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. I may call you at any moment. Get your sleep, my boy,—if I should be gone over night,—but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you."