“They must be staying somewhere,” said the Resident, who suffered from the desire to keep back the question that so agitated his breast. “Depend upon it, they have gone to the doctor’s to smoke a cigar.”
He felt as he spoke that this was impossible; for he was sure that the hours kept at the doctor’s were too regular for such a relapse.
“And my daughter?” said Mr Perowne, in a cold, stern voice.
“I’ll have the men out to search if it is necessary,” said the Resident, eagerly; “but before we proceed to such an extreme measure, had we not better make more inquiries? Yours is a large house and grounds. She may be back by now.”
Neil Harley felt a strange choking sensation as he spoke, and he knew that his words were weak; but he clung to the hope that there was some mistake, and that Helen was by now safely at home.
“She may,” said Mr Perowne, bitterly. “But it seems to me that there is some trick here. I gave you the credit of it at first.”
“Am I a man so wanting in respect for Helen that I should insult her and you?”
“I—I can’t help it, Harley!” groaned the father. “There seems to be no end to my troubles!”
The Resident looked at him sharply, for that evening he had seemed all life and gaiety.
“Yes, you may look!” groaned the unhappy man; “but everything goes wrong with me. There is, I am sure, some planned affair here; and I believe that Hilton is at the bottom of it.”