That Lionel Redgrave had gone out one evening—this was the eighth day since—and had not returned. That they had waited three days, and then, feeling very uneasy, they had written down to Elton Court to Sir Richard Redgrave, who had immediately come up to town.
Sir Richard was now absent, but ten minutes later he returned, to greet Harry most warmly.
He was a tall, stern, military-looking, old man, but there was a mild, appealing look in his eye, and he seemed worn out with trouble and anxiety, for he was clinging to his last straw—to wit, the hope that Harry Clayton would remember enough of his son’s haunts to give some clue to his whereabouts, and thus relieve him of his horrible suspense.
“Sit down, Sir Richard,” said Harry, seeing his exhaustion.
The old man—as a rule, haughty and unbending—seemed as obedient as a child, and taking a chair, sat attentively watching the younger’s thoughtful face, as he rested his forehead upon his hand.
“He went out a week yesterday?” said Harry, after a few moments.
“Yes; this day makes the eighth.”
“Do you know what money he had?”
“Nothing for certain; but I sent him a cheque for fifty pounds in excess of his allowance, and at his wish, only two days before. See here!”
Sir Richard opened his tablets and showed Harry the memorandum.