They both were silent as the boys came panting up the bank. “Here’s a handkerchief. It was what I saw. It 149 was caught on a thorn bush, and here––here’s Peter Junior’s little notebook, with his name––”
“This is Peter’s handkerchief. P. C. J. Hester Craigmile embroidered those letters.” Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Bertrand, we must go to her. She may hear in some terrible way.”
“And the book, where was that, John?”
“It was lying on that flat rock. John had to crawl along the ledge on his belly to get it; and here, I found this lead pencil,” cried Charlie, excited and important.
“‘Faber No. 2.’ Yes, this was also Peter’s.” Bertrand shut it in the notebook. “Mary, this looks sinister. We’d better go down. There’s nothing more to learn here.”
“Maybe we’ll find the young men both safely at home.”
“Richard was to leave early this morning.”
“I remember.”
Sadly they returned, and the two boys walked with them, gravely and earnestly propounding one explanation after another.
“You’d better go back to the house, Mary, and I’ll go on to the village with the boys. We’ll consult with your father, John; he’s a thoughtful man, and––”