Alan went into the little room that had become so dear to them both. The cottage was deserted, Mrs. Slater was absent, and as he made his way up to the little bedroom, he sighed as he thought of leaving the dear little place.
In a very short space of time the drawers were emptied and the trunks packed; everything was done except the putting together of the hundred and one odds and ends that invariably remain about.
“That’s good!” said he to himself, as he rose from his knees, having finished strapping up the trunks, and he surveyed his handiwork with pride, as he realized the short time it had taken him to complete it all.
“Alan!”—He turned round suddenly—it was Desmond’s voice.
“Coming, old chap,” but Desmond was in the room, with a white, set face, trembling limbs and a look of horror in his eyes.
“Good God! Whatever is the matter?” he asked.
“John Meal—Matt Harding—” gasped Desmond.
“Have found Dan’s boy?” eagerly.
“No. Their children have disappeared too!”
“What?”