“What shall I do? What shall I do? I’ve lost my bag! I had it when we started, and now it is gone!”
“Edward,” exclaimed Mrs. Rowe to her husband, “please ask the coachman to turn the carriage about. We must drive back for the reticule at once. I’ve told you of its valuable contents.”
“Family heirlooms probably,” reflected Captain Bradstreet. “What was the girl thinking of to carry such trinkets about her person?”
“Do you recollect where you last saw the reticule, Miss Evans?” asked Mr. Rowe, when the horses were retracing their steps.
“Oh, I can’t remember, Mr. Rowe!” Miss Evans’s face was ghastly white. “I haven’t the remotest idea. How could I—how could I have forgotten that reticule for one moment?”
“Don’t worry, Miss Evans; we’ll find it for you,” called Kirke from his seat beside the coachman. “Paul and I will find it for you, if we kill ourselves running.”
But though the boys hunted diligently, and the whole party aided in the quest, twilight fell, and the reticule had not been discovered.
They had searched the highway leading to the castle; had searched the castle itself, and questioned the apple-cheeked serving-maid, who had just shown them its interior; had searched the park, and even the ponds within it; and at last had met in despair upon the bridge that spanned the moat.
“I think I must have dropped my reticule into this water when I leaned over the rail here this afternoon,” said Miss Evans, her voice quivering. “In that case, the manuscript would be spoiled before now.”
“Let’s take another look for it in the park; it’s lighter there,” whispered Kirke to Paul; from no expectation of finding the coveted object where it had been so patiently sought, but from a strong desire to get out of the way before Miss Evans began to cry. Like boys in general, he had a great aversion to seeing a woman in tears.