Nurse opened it almost on her knock, and peered anxiously behind her into the dark, but Mrs. Beauchamp shook her head.
"No, I have done nothing," she said, in a strained voice. "I can't think what to do—no one has seen them, nurse."
Her voice trembled a little, but she tried to smile. She would not break down.
"I want to speak to Amy, nurse, and Master Tom; but Amy is less excitable. Send them to me on the stairs here; we must not wake baby."
"I've questioned them," said nurse, "but they don't seem to know anything. They'll be ready enough to tell if they do; they are very upset."
Mrs. Beauchamp sat upon the lowest stair, with her anxious eyes fixed on the nursery door. They were curiously like Susie's eyes, but with a sweeter expression. They were smiling still, but it was such a sad smile that after one look Amy flew helter-skelter downstairs and flung herself into the welcoming arms.
"Amy," said her mother gently, "don't cry now; I haven't time. I am anxious about Dickie's bronchitis"—it was curious how she clung to the belief that it was only the bronchitis that troubled her—"it is so rainy and cold! Do you know where Susie has gone?"
"No, mother," said Amy. She knelt upon the stair with her pale little face pressed against her mother's cheek.
"Think, Amy," Mrs. Beauchamp urged.
"I have thoughted and thoughted," said Amy, "and I can only remember that once, a long time ago, the twins said—"