"Hermy," said she, "oh, my lamb, he's gone! You left Arthur in my care an'—he's gone, an' it's my fault. Went away at five o'clock, an' here it is nigh on to ten—an' him sick! God knows I've searched for him—tramped to th' ferry an' back, an' th' footmen they've looked for him an' so have th' maids—but Arthur's gone—an' it's my fault! So, Hermy—my dear—blame me an' let me go—"
The harsh voice broke and, bowing her head, she sat silent, touching the unopened packet of jewellery with one long, bony finger.
"Why, Ann—dear Ann—you're crying!" Hermione was down on her knees, had clasped that long bony figure in her arms. "You mustn't, Ann, you mustn't. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, so don't grieve, dear—there!" And she had drawn the disconsolate grey head down upon her shoulder and pillowed it there.
"But—oh, Hermy, he's gone! An' you told me to—look after him."
"Ann, if Arthur meant to go, I'm sure you couldn't have prevented him; he isn't a child any longer, dear. There, be comforted—we'll hunt for him in the car—won't we, Geoffrey?"
"Of course," nodded Ravenslee, "I'll 'phone the garage right away."
But as he opened the door he came face to face with Joe, who touched an eyebrow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"S'cuse me, sir," said he, "but it's that Old Un, covered wi' dust 'e is, sir, an' wants a word wi' you. And, sir, 'e 's that mysterious as never was. Shall I let him come in, sir?"
"You try an' keep me out, my lad, that's all!" panted the Old Un, ducking under Joe's great arm, "I'm better man nor ever you'll be!"
So saying, the Old Un hobbled forward and, sinking into the nearest armchair, fanned himself with his hat, which, like the rest of his garments, bore the dust of travel.