“Time’s up,” he said to Lord Carfield. “They’ll lose the train if they don’t mind. Where the deuce has the fellow got to?”
Lord Carfield looked up at the great hall clock.
“He went home to fetch something he had forgotten. That was—oh, an hour since; he should have returned long ago. Perhaps he is with the squire, or somewhere about the place.”
The young fellow went to the study door and opened it, then closed it softly and reverently.
“No,” he said, anxiously. “The squire is there—alone. Bradstone may be in the house; but I don’t see how he could get in without our seeing him. But I’ll look.”
He was gone four or five minutes; then he came back looking still more worried and anxious.
“He’s not in the place, confound him!” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Aunt Amelia came fluttering out of the drawing-room with one elaborately embroidered slipper—which would have fitted a child of four, but which she fondly hoped would be mistaken for her own.
“Where’s dear Olivia? Where’s Bartley?” she simpered, with an hysterical little giggle. “Isn’t it time they started? Why, what is the matter?” she demanded, looking from one to the other of the now silent and curious groups.
“Hang it all,” said young Vernon, the best man, “I must do something or I shall get mad. Look here, I’ll dash off to The Maples. If I find him there, I’ll bring him; if I don’t—I mean if he passes me on the way—tell him I’ve gone on to the station to take the tickets. Every moment will be of consequence. Don’t be upset, Miss Vanley,” he added to Aunt Amelia, who was already exhibiting signs of hysterics; “it’s all right! I’ll bet ten to one Mr. Bradstone will be here before I’m back,” and he dashed off.