Percivale had come up, and was standing beside me. When I looked round, he was as pale as death; and at the sight of his face, I nearly dropped on the floor. But he caught hold of me, and said, in a voice so dreadfully still that it frightened me more than any thing,—
"Come, my love; do not give way, for we must go to the police at once."
Then, turning to Sarah, "Have you searched the house and garden?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; every hole and corner. We've looked under every bed, and into every cupboard and chest,—the coal-cellar, the boxroom,—everywhere."
"The bathroom?" I cried.
"Oh, yes, ma'am! the bathroom, and everywhere."
"Have there been any tramps about the house since we left?" Percivale asked.
"Not that I know of; but the nursery window looks into the garden, you know, sir. Jemima didn't mention it."
"Come then, my dear," said my husband.
He compelled me to swallow a glass of wine, and led me away, almost unconscious of my bodily movements, to the nearest cab-stand. I wondered afterwards, when I recalled the calm gaze with which he glanced along the line, and chose the horse whose appearance promised the best speed. In a few minutes we were telling the inspector at the police-station in Albany Street what had happened. He took a sheet of paper, and asking one question after another about her age, appearance, and dress, wrote down our answers. He then called a man, to whom he gave the paper, with some words of direction.
"The men are now going on their beats for the night," he said, turning again to us. "They will all hear the description of the child, and some of them have orders to search."