Frank now placed his foot against the frail door, and with one vigorous push he sent it flat upon the earthen floor of the cottage, and immediately striding over it, he entered the humble dwelling.
The villagers hesitated for a moment, in order to be quite sure there was no immediate danger in following Frank Hartleton, and then they quickly thronged the little cottage, which could boast of but two small apartments, so that the whole interior was in a very few minutes examined.
The cottage was tenantless. Dame Tatton and her infant charge had both disappeared.
The simple rustics gaped at each other in speechless amazement. The bed had evidently been occupied, but there was no sign of confusion or violence—all was orderly and neat—nothing was removed or disarranged. A canary bird was singing gaily in a wicker cage; a cat slept on the hearth; but the Widow Tatton and the mysterious child—now more mysterious than ever—had both disappeared.
“I cannot account for this,” said Frank Hartleton. “By Heavens it’s the most singular thing I ever heard of.”
“The place has a strange look,” cried one.
“A strange look!” said the rest in chorus. “So indeed it has.”
“Strange nonsense,” cried Frank. “So you are frightened all of you at an empty-room are you?”
“Master Frank,” suddenly shouted one, “look ye here, you were always a main scholar.”
Frank turned his attention to a part of the plaster wall indicated by him who spoke, and on it was traced, as if rapidly with a thumb or finger nail these words,—