"I'm banking on Dick," said Randal.
"He's all you say, no doubt. But if you feel all you've told me for my girl, it's almost as terrible for you as for me. And your brother can't do the impossible, tracking without trace. Vestigia nulla!" And the father groaned, looking twenty years older than he had seemed twenty-four hours ago. "I watch every young woman in the street, half hoping she'll turn her face and show me Amaryllis. And all the time I know it's impossible."
Then, again, "God, man!" he broke out, "these things don't happen in civilised communities. I suffer like the damned, without the satisfaction of believing in my hell."
A few minutes later, as they turned out of Parliament Street, "You do take it easy for a lover, Randal," he repeated. "I don't understand you."
At the moment Randal made no reply, but, as they waited for the lift, "Perhaps I ought to tell you," he said, "that I'm no longer in the running. I'm afraid it pained her kind heart, saying no to me."
"When was that?" asked the father, speaking more like his ordinary self.
"The last time we spoke of it was about an hour before we missed her. After that I think she went into my study to be alone, and possibly, as a woman will, shed a few tears over the matter; and then, perhaps, fell asleep, and was caught unawares—but it's no use guessing."
The lift came down, and the escorting constable sidled up and entered it after them.
As they left it, the discreet guide keeping well ahead in the gloomy corridor, Caldegard whispered:
"Then it's even worse for you than I thought, Randal. You're a good man, and I'm an ill-tempered old one."