“Well?” said the baronet. “That’s all, Sir Murray,” said the man, timidly. “I was called away, and didn’t see her go. I didn’t know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on.”
“She has not come back, then?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.
“You have not said a word of all this?” said the baronet, in a low tone.
“Not a word, Sir Murray!” exclaimed the man, with an injured air. “You can trust me, sir.”
Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon’s return.
An hour elapsed, and then he rang.
“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship has not returned.”
Another hour passed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rushing crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but the avant-garde. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.
“Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?” asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.
“Yes,” said Sir Murray, “and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too.”