The steward gave a little cough. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but it has seemed to me that his Grace was not quite himself. The very evening before he—before he left us, he would go out alone. He would not have his carriage, nor permit us to summon a chair, my lord. Indeed, when I begged him to let me at least call a linkboy he ran out of the house in quite a pet—if your lordship will excuse the word!”
“Well, I daresay that might put him in a fidget, but it is nothing to the purpose, after all! I own that it is a little disturbing that he should stay so long away, but young men are thoughtless, you know! Tomorrow, if there should be no word from him I will make some discreet enquiries. Captain Ware no doubt knows who are his intimates. We shall clear up this mystery speedily enough, I daresay.”
On this bracing note, he dismissed Scriven. But when he was alone he sat for quite an appreciable time, an untasted glass of wine in his hand, and his eyes fixed frowningly upon the glowing coals in the grate. He remembered that Gilly had been foolishly agitated when the question of his marriage had been broached. He hoped that the boy had not made his offer against his will, and fallen into a fit of dejection. He was so quiet there was never any knowing what was in his head. Suddenly his lordship remembered that Gilly had had some odd notion of going to London alone, and of staying in an hotel. It really began to look as though he had had some plan of escaping from his household from the start. But why he should wish to do so Lord Lionel could not imagine. Had he been a wild young blade, like Gaywood, one would have supposed that he was bent on kicking up a lark, but it was surely the height of absurdity to cherish such a suspicion of poor Gilly. Lord Lionel could only hope that his son would be able to throw some light on a problem which was beginning to make him feel extremely uneasy.
Chapter XV
Lord Lionel passed a disturbed night. He came down to breakfast in the expectation of finding a letter from his errant nephew awaiting him; but in despite of the fact that the sum of one pound was paid to the Post Office every year by Mr. Scriven, out of the Duke’s income, to ensure the early delivery of the mail, no such letter gladdened his lordship’s eyes. Matters did not, of course, appear to be quite so desperate as they had seemed during the chill small hours, but there was no denying that Lord Lionel had little appetite for his breakfast. He was curt with Borrowdale, and even brutal to Nettlebed; and when a message was brought to him that Captain Belper had called he instructed the footman to tell this unwelcome visitor that he had gone out.
In a very short time he did go out. He spent the better part of the morning at White’s and at Boodle’s, and, being no fool, was soon able to discern that Gilly’s disappearance was the main topic of conversation amongst the haut ton. Interesting discussions ended abruptly with his entrance into a room; and from several hints that were dropped he discovered, to his wrath, that speculation was rife on his son’s part in the mystery. He had almost gone to Albany when he bethought him of an old crony, and strode off instead to Mount Street. Whatever the on-dits of town might be, it was certain, he reflected grimly, that Timothy Wainfleet would know them all.
He found his friend at home, huddled over a fire in his book-room, and looking at once wizened and alarmingly alert. Sir Timothy welcomed him with exquisite courtesy, gave him a chair by the fire, and a glass of sherry, and murmured that he was enchanted to see him. But it did not seem to Lord Lionel that Sir Timothy was quite as enchanted as he averred, and, being a direct person, he said so, in express terms.
“Dear Lionel!” said Sir Timothy, faintly protesting. “Indeed, you wrong me! Always enchanted, I assure you! And how are the pheasants? You do shoot pheasants in October, do you not?”
“I have not come to talk to you of pheasants,” announced Lord Lionel. “What is more, you know as well as I do when pheasant-shooting begins!”
Sir Timothy’s shrewd grey eyes twinkled ruefully. “Yes, dear Lionel, but I apprehend that I would rather talk of pheasants than—er—than what you have come to talk about!”