“You are sure it was Mr. Verrall?” reiterated George.
Isaac Hastings smiled. What could make Mr. George Godolphin so eager? “I am sure it was Mr. Verrall.”
George felt as if a whole ton weight of care had been lifted from him. He had been so long in the habit of flying to Mr. Verrall in his difficulties, that it seemed to him he would only have to go to him, to remedy the one hanging over him now. Mr. Verrall had generally accomplished the task as men of his profession do accomplish such tasks—by laying up an awful day of reckoning for the future. That day was not now far off for George Godolphin.
The Bank closed later on Saturdays, and George remained at his post to the end. Then he dined. Then, at the dusk-hour—nay, at the hour of darkness, he went out to Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Why was it that he rarely went to the Folly now, except under the covert shades of night? Did he fear people might comment on his intimacy with Mr. Verrall, and seek a clue to its cause? Or did he fear the world’s gossip on another score?
George arrived at Lady Godolphin’s Folly, and was admitted to an empty room. “Mr. Verrall had returned, and had dined with Mrs. Pain, but had gone out after dinner,” the servant said. He had believed Mrs. Pain to be in the drawing-room. Mrs. Pain was evidently not there, in spite of the man’s searching eyes. He looked into the next room, with similar result.
“Perhaps, sir, she has stepped out on the terrace with her dogs?” observed the man.
George—ungallant as he was!—cared not where Mrs. Pain might have stepped at that present moment: his anxiety was for Mr. Verrall. “Have you any idea when your master will be in?” he inquired of the servant.
“I don’t think he’ll be long, sir. I heard him say he was tired, and should go to bed early. He may have gone to Ashlydyat. He told Mrs. Pain that he had met Mr. Godolphin in town yesterday, and he should call and tell Miss Godolphin that he was better in London than he felt here. I don’t know, sir, though, that he meant he should call to-night.”
The man left the room, and George remained alone. He drummed on the table; he tried several seats in succession; he got up and looked at his face in the glass. A haggard face then. Where was Verrall? Where was Charlotte? She might be able to tell him where Verrall had gone, and when he would be in. Altogether George was in a state of restlessness little better than torture.
He impatiently opened the glass doors, which were only closed, not fastened, and stood a few moments looking out upon the night. He gazed in all directions, but could see nothing of Charlotte; and Mr. Verrall did not appear to be coming. “I’ll see,” suddenly exclaimed George, starting off, “whether he is at Ashlydyat.”