CHAPTER IX.
ALARM.
Darkness had set in, and candles had been lighted for an hour nearly, when Hawkshaw entered the now half dismantled drawing-room of Laurel Lodge.
Rose was idling over the piano; Ethel was seated near the unremoved tea equipage, and Mr. Basset was busy among some papers in his escritoire. Hawkshaw, for reasons of his own, dared not encounter the pale, inquiring face of Ethel.
"Have you seen anything of Mr. Ashton?" asked her father, looking up, with one glance at Hawkshaw, and another at the clock on the mantel-piece. "It is past nine. He was only going to the railway station, and has not yet returned. His absence is most singular."
Hawkshaw hesitated, and looked at his watch with a confused air, as he muttered:
"Past nine—yes, ten minutes."
"He was seen to pass the gate with you," said Ethel.
"With me?" said Hawkshaw, starting.
"Yes."
"By whom?" he asked, with some asperity.