At an early hour, two policemen surprised Sally Dent by a visit. She pointed out her lodger's room to them, and said that she believed he was not yet up. The door was indeed locked; but in vain the policemen knocked on it and shook it. No sound came from within; and when they burst it open, lo, the birds had flown! They must have made their way out by the window, and across the low wall of the garden. They had left little of value behind, and Lucas had neglected to pay his last week's rent—a fact which destroyed Sally's faith in the old saying of there being honour amongst thieves.
Sally could remember that her lodger had come in some time during the evening with his workman's bag over his shoulder, and had bidden her "good-night" as he turned into his room; but she was uncertain as to the exact hour of his return. Her head was apt to be in rather a hazy condition at that period of the day.
"It might have been eight o'clock; it might have been half-past; it might have been nine; I really could not say. A civil-spoken man was Lucas," Sally said. "If indeed he were a burglar, I have never been more deceived in a man in all my life. And Gus, too! To think of what I have done for that lad, and he must needs go and take up with a lot of thieves! But have had enough of him; he shall never darken my doors again—a good-for-nothing young rascal! I'll let him know that I will only have honest folk here."
"The little lad's honest enough, if all's true that he says," replied one of the policemen. "It's a common dodge of them burglars to make a child their tool; but I think these got hold of one of the wrong sort."
About noon, Edith's grandfather returned to his disquieted household. Colonel Carruthers had seen service in the Crimea, and was now past seventy years of age; but his tall, slight figure still retained its erect, soldierly bearing, and his eyes their keen, bright glance. His expression was somewhat stern, his manner haughty; but the man was kinder than he appeared. He had known sore disappointment and pain in earlier days, and the trial had hardened his demeanour, and perhaps intensified his pride; but beneath this surface severity was concealed a warm heart—a heart that could feel the sorrows of others, a heart that could love faithfully and long. Very dear to the old colonel was his grandchild, Edith Durrant, the child of his only daughter.
The colonel listened with some impatience to Miss Durrant's account of the alarm of the past night, and did not hesitate to interrupt her now and again with a short, sharp question. He had never much patience with poor Miss Durrant; her fussiness annoyed him. Yet she had good cause to be grateful to the colonel. He had delivered her from the ill-paid, thankless position of a fine lady's companion, and given her a comfortable home as the mistress of his house and guardian of his young granddaughter, the eldest child of her brother, who was in India with his regiment.
"Where is the young rascal?" asked Colonel Carruthers, when he had been told the whole story.
He spoke gravely; but there was an amused gleam in his eyes, which Edith understood.
"He is downstairs, grandpapa," she replied; "the policeman wanted to take him away, but I thought you would like to see him."
"Like to see him, indeed! I don't know that I particularly care to see the young rogue."