"It's a pretty spot, sir, but very lonely at night; lonely enough in the day, for the matter of that."
"Yes, it seems so. Send your messenger off at once, there's a good fellow. Joseph Wilmot may be sitting drinking in the servants' hall at the Ferns."
The landlord went away to do his guest's bidding.
Mr. Dunbar flung himself into a low easy-chair, and took up a newspaper. But he did not read a line upon the page before him. He was in that unsettled frame of mind which is common to the least nervous persons when they are kept waiting, kept in suspense by some unaccountable event. The absence of Joseph Wilmot became every moment more unaccountable: and his old master made no attempt to conceal his uneasiness. The newspaper dropped out of his hand: and he sat with his face turned towards the door: listening.
He sat thus for more than an hour, and at the end of that time the landlord came to him.
"Well?" exclaimed Henry Dunbar.
"The lad has come back, sir. No messenger from you or any one else has called at the Ferns this afternoon."
Mr. Dunbar started suddenly to his feet, and stared at the landlord. He paused for a few moments, watching the man's face with a thoughtful countenance. Then he said, slowly and deliberately,—
"I am afraid that something has happened."
The landlord fidgeted with his ponderous watch-chain, and shrugged his shoulders with a dubious gesture.