"I think," replied I, "that I can hear them saying a name that sounds very like Chunda."
"Chunda? That's George's native servant. Ask him to come here, Frank."
The visitor, having shaken the snow from his garments, was conducted—almost pushed—into the drawing-room, and turned out to be a dusky Hindoo in English garb. He was followed by my uncle's valet, who had met him on the way.
"Chunda," said Daphne, addressing the Hindoo, "where is Captain Willard?"
"I do not know, Miss Daphne," returned he, in a tone in which surprise and perplexity were blended. "Is he not here? He has been absent from the hotel all night."
"Absent from the hotel all night?"
"Yes, Miss Daphne. He left the Métropole about seven o'clock last night, saying he was going to spend the evening in Belgrave Square, and would be back about eleven. He never came back."
"Then he must be at Sydenham," said Daphne.
"So I thought," continued the Hindoo; "and as he had told me that he had some orders which he particularly wished me to attend to before the wedding took place, I set off for Sydenham, and waked up the housekeeper. But the Captain wasn't there, she said. I walked back to London—cold work it was, too, through the snow. But the Captain was not at the hotel when I got there; and had not been in while I was there, the hall-porter said. I found his bed untouched. I waited some time, and then, thinking there must be something wrong, I came here."
The artist now stepped forward into the circle which had been gradually forming around the Hindoo.