‘You were too ill, uncle, and Rose did not know about it till she came home. Then she told Herbert, and he hoped to find him and write.’
‘When was this?’
‘When Herbert came home—the 29th or 30th of June,’ said Ida, trembling. ‘He must find him, uncle; don’t fear!’
It was a strange groaning sigh that answered; then, with a great effort—
‘Thank you, Ida; I can’t understand it yet—I can’t talk! Good-night!’ Then, with an afterthought, when he had almost shut his door, he turned the handle again to say, ‘Who did you say saw—thought she saw—my boy? Where?’
‘Rose Rollstone, uncle; first at the North Station—then at Waterloo! And Louisa Hall too!’
‘I thank you; good-night!’
And for what a night of strange dreams, prayers, and uncertainties did Frank shut himself in—only forcing himself by resolute will into sleeping at last, because he knew that strength and coolness were needful for to-morrow’s investigation.
CHAPTER XXXVII
HOPE
That last sleep lasted long, till the sound of the little tinkling bell came through the open window, and then the first waking thought that Mite was alive was at first taken for a mere blissful dream. It was only the sight of the woolly dog that recalled with certainty the conversation with Ida.