“No,” the waiter replied. The impression on his mind was, that Mr. Ashton’s business in Worcester was over, and that he was returning home again.
The Squire moved slowly up Broad Street, more gloomy than an owl, his hands in his pockets, his nose blue. He boasted of his systematic abilities, as applied to seekings and searchings, but he knew no more what to be at next than the man in the moon. Turning up the Cross, he came to an anchor outside the linen-draper’s shop; propping his back against the window, as if the hanging silks had offended him. There he stood staring up at St. Nicholas’s clock opposite.
“Tom,” said he, virtually giving in, “I think we had better talk to the police. Here’s one coming along now.”
When the policeman was abreast, the Squire took his hands from his pockets, and pinned the man by his button-hole.
“Mr. Ashton of Timberdale?—oh, he has got into trouble, sir,” was the man’s ready answer. “He is before the magistrates now, on a charge of——”
The railway omnibus, coming along at the moment, partially drowned the word.
“Charge of what?” roared the Squire.
The policeman repeated it. The omnibus was making a frightful rattle, and the Squire only just caught it now. With a great cry he dashed over to the fly-stand, got into one, and ordered it to gallop away with him. Tom Coney and Tod barely escaped having to hang on behind.
“Drive like mad!” stamped the Squire.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, obeying. “Where to?”