"What on earth has he been up to?--He looked as scared as though he had met a ghost!" mentally commented Roland with his accustomed freedom, as he stared after the wayfarer. For in him he had recognised Mr. Bede Greatorex.
He did not suffer the speculation to detain him. Taking to his heels with the last stroke of the clock, Roland gained the small hotel in Norfolk Street; into which he bolted head foremost, with his usual clatter, haste, and want of ceremony, and nearly into the arms of a tall waiter.
"I want Mr. Arthur Channing. Which room is he in?"
"Mr. Arthur Channing is gone out, sir."
"Gone out!"
"Yes, sir. Some time ago."
"He found he had no letters to write, and so went on to me," thought Roland, as he shot out again "And I have been cooling my heels in this precious street, like a booby!"
Full speed went he home now, through all the cross-cuts and nearest ways he knew, never slackening it for a moment; arriving there with bated breath and damp hair. Seizing the knocker in one hand and the bell in the other, he worked at both frantically until the door was opened. Mr. Ollivera, flinging up his window above, put out his alarmed head; Mrs. Jones, Miss Rye, two visitors, and the maid Betsey, came rushing along the passage with pale faces, Mrs. J. herself opening the door, Betsey absolutely refusing the office. Roland, without the least explanation or apology, dashed through the group into the parlour. It was dark and empty.
"Where's Arthur Channing?" he demanded, darting out again. "Mrs. J., where have you put him?"
And when Mrs. J. could gather the sense of the question sufficiently to answer it, Roland had the satisfaction--or, rather, non-satisfaction--of finding that Arthur Channing had not been there.