Margaret gave him a little push and put his hat in his hand and opened the door. Even then he seemed scarcely to understand, but he passed out mechanically, and Margaret saw that he went in the direction of Mr. Greenholme’s house.
She herself turned to meet the dismayed faces of the other two bridesmaids.
“Margaret, what is it?” asked Miss Whitwell. “Mr. Wythburn has just rushed through the room saying that he was going to search the garden for Mary. Is not Mary in the house?”
“No; she must have left the house last night, for she has not slept in her bed. Hilda, your room was next Mary’s; did you hear her in the night?”
“No. But Mary is a little peculiar. Perhaps she went for a walk, and sprained her ankle or something. We had better go through the grounds. I should not be surprised if she went over the hill to Rayford. It was a magnificent night, and the moon made it almost like day; but if she attempted to go across the rocks she might well meet with an accident.”
“Oh, but she never would! What is the use of saying such things?” exclaimed Miss Whitwell, and immediately added, “Perhaps she is somewhere near, and we shall find her.”
But Margaret felt sure that she would not be found, and, instead of joining the others, she went to Mrs. Wythburn, who was still going into one room after another, and peering into all sorts of unlikely places, searching for her missing daughter and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Presently in came Alfred Greenholme and his father, the former feeling more disturbed than he had ever felt in his life before.
“What in the world is the matter?” he said. “Stapleton seems to have taken leave of his senses. He was as incoherent as if he had been drinking; but I understand him to say that Mary is missing.”
“Yes; he said what is true. Mary cannot be found.”