"Ay--yo're verra good. Ah con do wi' a rest, for ah walked aw the way fro' Wynsloe."
"You must be nearly dead. Help yourself now, and I'll be back as soon as I can." And he went clanking down the stairs and swung on to his horse and away, with a dull sick feeling at the heart at thought of Kattie.
Who could have done this thing? He remembered her expressed wish to get to London, when they were walking down to the Mere that other day. It was, perhaps, not quite so bad--as yet--as old Seth feared.
The girl's longing for what seemed to her the wider, brighter life might have led her to risk her poor little fortune in the metropolis. Or it might be that she had not come to London at all, but had gone away with some village lover. But--on the whole--he was inclined to think London her more likely aim. And as to whether she had come alone he had nothing whatever to go upon.
It was long after midday before he got back to his quarters, but old Seth had not found the time any too long, having been fast asleep ever since he had eaten.
Jim got out of his trappings and lit a pipe, which he had taken to of late as at once a promoter of thought and a soother of undue exertion in that direction.
And after a time old Seth stretched himself and opened his eyes, and then sat up.
"Ah've slep'," he said quietly. "But yo' towd me to."
"You'll feel all the better for it. Now, tell me all you can about this matter, Seth, and we'll see if we can see through it. Where is young Seth?"
"Hoo's away."