“That he wasn’t, sir!” cried someone excitedly; and Jerry advanced from where he had been waiting upon his master, and now stood close to the colonel, gesticulating with an empty claret bottle in his hand.
“Silence, sir!” cried the colonel; “how dare you speak!”
“Beg pardon, sir; I felt abound to speak because I know Dick Smithson isn’t at all likely to go to any low places.”
The colonel frowned; but he said no more, and Jerry was allowed to go back to his place.
That night the superintendent of police was summoned to the barracks, and had a long talk with the colonel and major.
“No, gentlemen, I don’t think it is at all likely. They get down to the rougher houses, and drink and stay a day or two; but the landlords get rid of them as soon as they have spent all their money. But, as you’ve sent for me, I’ll set a couple of our sharpest men to go from house to house, and then report to you.”
The superintendent left to perform his mission, and orders were given to the military provosts; but another day passed away, and neither civil nor military police had anything to report. No one had seen the young bandsman on his way to some distant railway station, and men began to shake their heads, while Jerry’s face looked hollow from anxiety. At the same time, though, he felt a kind of pride in the fact that he was constantly being questioned by those who knew that he and Dick had been on friendly terms, this culminating in his being stopped one day in the street by a couple of ladies.
“You are Mr Lacey’s servant, are you not?” said the younger.
“Yes, ma’am—oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t know you behind your veil.”
“Has anything been heard of Smithson?”