“Distin seems curiously agitated and disturbed,” said the doctor.
“Yes: he is a nervous, finely-strung youth,” replied the rector. “The result of his birth in a tropical country. It was startling, too, his being fetched down from bed to hear such news.”
“Of course—of course,” said the doctor; and preparations having been rapidly made by the rector, who mustered three lanterns, one being an old bull’s-eye, they all started.
“Better go down as far as the church, first, and collect our forces. Then we’ll make a start for the moor. But who shall we have for guide?”
“Perhaps I know the place best,” said the doctor; and they started in silence, passing down the gravel drive, out at the gate, and then along the dark lane with the lights dancing fitfully amongst the trees and bushes on either side, and casting curiously weird shadows behind.
As they reached the road, Macey, who carried one lantern, held it high above his head and shouted.
“Hush—hush!” cried the doctor, for the lad’s voice jarred upon him in the silence.
“Distin’s coming, sir,” said Macey.
There was an answering hail, and then the pat-pat of steps, as Distin trotted after and joined them.
By the time the church was reached, there was plenty of proof of Vane’s popularity, for lanterns were dancing here and there, and lights could be seen coming from right up the street, while a loud eager buzz of voices reached their ears. Ten minutes after the doctor found himself surrounded by a band of about forty of the townsfolk, everyone of whom had some kind of lantern and a stick or pole, and all eager to go in search of the missing lad.