“But, Margaret, where can my child be, and what is to be done? Alfred Greenholme——”
“Yes; I will ask Dr. Stapleton to fetch him, and to see that the church remains closed. I will manage it. We will not have more talk than we can help. And, Mr. Wythburn, do not give way to grief. Be sure that it will all come right in the end. Oh, be sure that Mary is to be trusted! She will, perhaps, be here presently, and laugh at all our fears.”
Margaret went at once to the room where Dr. Stapleton still waited. He was standing and looking eagerly toward the door when it was opened. He seemed to have a prevision of some catastrophe.
“What is it?” he said. “Something wrong with Mary, isn’t it? Tell me what it is. Is she ill?”
Margaret noticed that he looked white, as if with fear, and that he used her Christian name when speaking of Miss Wythburn.
“Yes; I think there is no doubt that she is ill. I had better tell you all the truth, Dr. Stapleton, for we are both Mary’s friends and the friends of the family. Mary, for some reason, left her home last night. Her room was not disturbed, and no one has seen her this morning, or has the slightest idea where she can be.”
Dr. Stapleton said nothing. He caught Margaret’s hands and held them forcibly, looking in her face with staring eyes.
“Dr. Stapleton, please, I want you to help us. Some one must go to Mr. Greenholme’s house. Will you go and ask Alfred to come here at once? And will you tell the sexton not to open the church until he hears from us? But it will be better to say nothing of what has happened.”
Still Stapleton did not speak or move.
“I think Mary will be here directly, do not you? I cannot imagine her doing anything unusual. Please go directly, and tell Mr. Greenholme.”