“I fear she has run away,” he said, “and as well seek for a needle in a bundle of hay as find anyone in London if they went to hide. Thank you, Johnson. Don’t say anything, but I fear it’s a bad business.”
So Mr. Churchill left the station with a heavy heart, but on the way home he saw the gray walls and towers of Woodlea Hall standing amid the trees in the distance, and again the thought of John Temple recurred to his mind.
“I’ll make some excuse and go and see if he’s there, at any rate,” he decided, and accordingly he turned his horse’s head down the avenue that led to the Hall, and a few minutes later drew up at the back entrance.
“Can I see the squire?” he asked in some agitation.
It was yet early morning, and the squire was still at breakfast. But Mr. Churchill was known to be a favorite tenant, and one of the servants took up a message that he was waiting until the squire could see him. A message came back, would Mr. Churchill go into the library, and Mr. Temple would join him immediately.
This the squire did, and in his quiet, courteous manner held out his hand to Mr. Churchill, who took it nervously.
“I am in sad trouble, sir,” he began.
“I am extremely sorry to hear this, Mr. Churchill,” answered the squire, with real interest.
“It’s about my daughter, sir—”
“What, that pretty girl?” interrupted the squire.