Squire Turner arrived in Vernon in time for a late supper. After partaking of it, he took his hat and cane, and walked round to Mrs. Raymond’s cottage. Seeing him from the window, she hastened to open the door, and gazed with a look of anxious inquiry into his face.
“Did you see Harry?” she asked quickly, forgetting in her anxiety for her son even to bid the squire good-evening.
“No, Mrs. Raymond; but I will come in and tell you all about it.”
His face was grave, and his voice was sympathetic. The poor woman, her heart full of a terrible anxiety, haunted by undefined fears, led the way into the plain sitting-room, and then said, in a voice of entreaty, “Tell me quick, Squire Turner, has anything happened to my boy?”
“Let us hope not, Mrs. Raymond. I assure you I know of no harm that has come to him, but—I could not find him.”
“You forgot the number?” she inquired, eagerly.
“No, I remembered the number. Besides, it was on your letter and bundle. But I find that Mr. Fairchild has moved from his office on Nassau Street.”
“Has moved—where?”
“That I could not learn. It seems that the office was closed the day after your son’s arrival in New York, that is, on Tuesday. I made inquiry of the occupant of the next office, but that was all he could tell me, except that he believed Mr. Fairchild had gone away without paying his rent.”