He shuffled himself down, and lay right back.
“Shall I never find my little girl?” he sighed.
“What shall I do?” murmured Maude. “Why isn’t he here?”
“I’m not fit to come hunting organ men all over the continent,” continued the old gentleman; “but Tom insisted, you see. Oh, my poor leg! It’s worse here than it was in town.”
He rubbed his leg slowly, and Maude made a movement as if to go to his side, but something seemed to hold her back.
“Tom is sure to be near,” she thought, “and they must not meet yet. Tom would not forgive him. If I could only get away and warn him.”
“Why don’t Tom come and order something to eat? I’m starving. Oh, dear: London to Paris—Paris to Baden—Baden to Nice—Nice to Genoa, and now on here to Naples. Poor Tom, he seems to grow more furious the more we don’t find them. Oh, hang the girl!” he added aloud.
Maude started, and had hard work to suppress a sob.
“They’ll separate us; they’ll drag me away,” she sighed.
“No, no, no, I will not say that,” cried Lord Barmouth, aloud. “I am hungry, and it makes me cross. My poor leg! I should like to find my poor darling,” he said, piteously. “Bless her! bless her! she was a good girl to me.”