“Here, Arthur, old man, rouse up!” he cried. “We’re going on to—hullo! Here, Mary, he hasn’t been to bed!” he shouted.
“Not been to bed!” cried the little lady. “Why, Arthur, you foolish—”
“He isn’t here, my dear,” said the doctor.
“But—but he was here when we came back, was he not?” said Mrs Bolter.
“I don’t know; I only knocked at his door. I was too sleepy to speak, my dear.”
“Oh! Henry,” exclaimed Mrs Bolter, excitedly, “something must have happened, or dear Arthur would not have stopped away like this.”
“I—I hope not,” said the doctor. “There, be calm, my dear; we know nothing yet.”
“Yes—yes, I will be calm,” said the little lady, fighting hard to master her excitement; “but, Henry, if we have brought my poor brother over here to be the victim of some terrible accident, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Oh, stuff—stuff!” cried the doctor, as they looked round the room to find that the bed had not been touched. “Don’t jump at conclusions. What did Harley say?”
“That Arthur was seen last with Helen Perowne—in the garden, I suppose.”