“Certain?” said the poor teacher; “of course I am certain. But I will go and enquire: I will look everywhere.”
Miss Ford did look. She searched the house; she questioned the maids, she went to Ralph’s own little bedroom, she even penetrated to that snug nest where Curly Pate lay like a ball of down. Nowhere was Ralph to be found. She came back at last, with a pale face, to the doctor.
“The child has not returned,” she said. “What is to be done?”
“We must lose no time,” said Dr Pyke. “Harriet—”
Harriet had seated herself on the first chair. She sat there huddled up. There is no other word to describe her appearance. Her hat was pushed forward over her eyes, and those eyes were red with crying. Now, however, her great terror prevented any further flow of tears.
“Harriet,” repeated the doctor, sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know more about Ralph than I do. Have you the least—the slightest idea where he may have gone?”
Harriet thought of the gipsies. She remembered how she had promised Ralph to take him to see them; how she had failed in her promise.
“Perhaps,”—she said—“oh, I don’t know—but he was very much excited about the gipsies; he may have gone to them.”