The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel—their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia. He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time. Could she know anything? Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret? He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done. And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard. But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers. He could not put them to unnecessary pain.
Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned—pale, anxious, and tired—to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew—information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.
In the evening, as they were seated together—Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light—the baronet spoke—
“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said. “It is always the same answer from the police—‘Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’ They say that every—every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied? We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton. What’s that? Did some one knock?”
Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.
Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.
“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.
“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”
“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come. Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”