But aloud he said:
“Everything that can be done has been done, I assure you. We have closed the coffin for obvious reasons, and placed disinfectants in the room. This sudden change of weather is very trying in a case like this.”
He turned aside with an air of resignation.
“Where is Miss Violet?” he asked, abruptly.
“She is still in her own room. I dread to break it to the poor child that she will never see her mother again—never, never!” with an outburst of sobs.
“There is always hope of future meeting, my dear Mrs. Rutledge,” interposed the doctor, beginning to secretly enjoy the situation, though despising himself for the part that he was forced to play.
And did he not have hope of a future, ay, a speedy meeting, when Rosamond should be found; for he never for a moment doubted that she would be found. Perhaps even now she might be at Yorke Towers, for Leonard had not yet made his appearance at The Oaks. But on this point Doctor Danton was soon undeceived. A little later a servant came riding hastily from Yorke Towers bearing a letter from Leonard Yorke to Mrs. Rutledge, stating that his mother was so very and alarmingly ill that he feared within himself now Miss Glyndon would be able to attend the funeral services. It was an affectionate letter, despite its brevity, and Leonard had sent a tender message to Violet, of which the poor girl never heard. Instead, Hilda informed her later in the day that Leonard Yorke had written to her mother, and had inquired particularly for herself. “And quite as though he was very anxious about me!” the young lady added, with a swift glance into Violet’s pale face.
Doctor Danton, reading Leonard’s letter, read between the lines, and felt certain that the young man was in trouble.
“As soon as I get through with this awful farce of a funeral, I will ride over to Yorke Towers,” he decided.
Dunbar had disappeared at break of day. The first thing that he did was to order his horse saddled, and once on its back, he rode around to the rear entrance of The Oaks, to the spot where Doctor Danton had left his carriage waiting under the control of Tom. Here was the mark of the wheels where the carriage had stood; over yonder was the spot where poor Tom had fallen, struck down by Satan himself, as the poor fellow declared. And see! there is a beaten space just before a clump of blackberry bushes, broken as though some one had been standing there trampling the young grass with impatient feet.