"Don't you be hard on Polly, John," his mother called after him as he went out into the dusk. "Maybe she'd some good reason."
"We'll settle it between us," John answered, and the yard gate shut sharply behind him.
On the darkening road it was not long before he met a few of the more respectable Markwood people, coming back from the fair. He stopped the first of these and asked rather stiffly if they had seen any of the Alfricks. One woman said she had seen Mary, rather distracted like, searching about for her mother and the children.
"Did you happen to see if our Lily was with her?"
"No, I didn't see her—I should say she wasn't."
John marched on with great strides. Half-way to Carsham he met Mrs. Alfrick and her children dragging wearily along the road, the younger ones crying, cross and tired. The dusk was drawing in so fast now that John's tall figure towered beside them almost before they knew that he was near.
"Oh I say, John, you did make my heart beat!" cried Mrs. Alfrick, and then, fearful of blame to herself, she began to pour out a torrent of confused words about stupid girls and tiresome children, and how she was that moithered she didn't know which way to turn, and she was sure it was not her fault, and if Mary had behaved like a sensible girl from the beginning this trouble wouldn't have come upon them.
"Where is Mary now, Mrs. Alfrick? Where have you left her?"
John's voice was loud and angry.
"I ain't accustomed to be spoke to in that style, young man," said Mrs. Alfrick. "Ask a civil question, and you may get a civil answer. Well, I wasn't likely to stop there all night, was I, with all these children—and Polly wasn't likely to come off and leave her precious treasure there alone?"