There was a pause, one of those pregnant pauses of mute anxiety while each eyed the other with glances full of an alarmed surmise.
“Perhaps the robber came and took her away,” said Benito in a voice of terror.
No one paid any attention. As if by common consent all present fastened questioning eyes on Barron. He stood looking down, his brows knit. The silence of dumb uneasiness was broken by the entrance of the Chinaman from the kitchen. With the expressionless phlegm of his race he lit the two hall gas-jets, gently but firmly moving the señora out of his way, and paying no attention to the silent group at the stair foot.
“Ching,” said Barron suddenly, “have you seen Miss Moreau this afternoon?”
“Yes,” returned the Celestial, carefully adjusting the tap of the second gas, “she go out hap-past four. She heap hurry. She look welly bad—heap sick I guess; no umblella; get awful wet.”
With his noiseless tread he retreated up the passage to the kitchen.
“Well, I’ll go,” said Barron suddenly. “She’s just possibly gone out to see some one and will be back soon. But no umbrella in this rain! Have her room warm and everything ready.”
He turned round and in an instant was gone. The little group at the stairpost looked at one another with pale faces. It was possible that Mariposa had gone out to see some one. But the dread of disaster was at every heart.
CHAPTER XXIV
A BROKEN TOOL
“A plague o’ both your houses!