“There is something wrong!—something horrible has happened!” he muttered to himself, and he became almost silent during the remainder of the dinner.
When the cloth was cleared, the dessert spread upon the table, and the servants had retired, he asked in a seemingly careless tone—
“How long has Helen been away? With whom is she staying?”
Mrs. Grahame’s brow slightly contracted. She produced a small, beautifully finished pocket-book, and opening it, took from it her daughter’s letter, which she handed to her husband.
“Miss Grahame’s room was one morning found by her nurse untenanted,” she said; coldly; “that letter was discovered upon her toilette; such explanation as it affords you have equally with myself; I know no more.”
Mr. Grahame’s eyes raced down the trembling characters penned by his wretched child; and when he came to the conclusion; he looked up to his wife in bewildered astonishment.
“What does all this mean?” he cried; almost fiercely Mrs. Grahame shrugged her shoulders; a low sob burst from Evangeline’s lips.
“Mistress Grahame,” he exclaimed; with a strong Scottish accent; an evidence of unusual feeling; “am I to understand that you are unable to offer any further explanation than this miserable epistle affords?”
“You are, Mr. Grahame,” replied his wife; with cold sullenness.
“Did you make no effort to trace her?” he asked.