We would go into a room, when Granny, opening the door of a cupboard and peering in in a short-sighted way, would call out in a gentle, slightly quavering voice:
"Is my darling hiding here from his Granny?"
No answer coming, her face would become still more anxious-looking, and she would request me to see if he were under the bed.
"Will you look under the bed, my dear, and see if he is there?" she would whisper, as if fearful that he might overhear and escape us. Then as I did so, she would cry coaxingly:
"Are you hiding there, my pet, trying to frighten poor Granny? Come out, my darling, come out."
And so on from room to room till we had exhausted all those not only on the first floor but on the next also, after which she proposed exploring the attics. By this time, however, she was so tired that I persuaded her to send one of the servants instead, whilst she returned with me to the library.
Here we found Briggs waiting for us, with a face the expression of which told its tidings without words. Ill-success was so plainly written upon it, that our anxious question, "Have you found him?" seemed almost superfluous.
"Did you look everywhere, Briggs,—everywhere?" poor Granny asked anxiously, and with grievous disappointment.
"In every single nook and corner, mum," Briggs replied, with a heavy sigh. "He ain't in the garden—that's sure and certain."
"Where is Mr. Wyndham?" Granny inquired, as she sat down wearily in her arm-chair.