“Could you have taken it to my room, and left it there?” asked Mr. Greyne.
They hastened thither, and looked—in vain. By this time the servants were gone to bed, and the two searchers were quite alone on the ground floor of their magnificent mansion. Mrs. Greyne began to look seriously perturbed. Her Roman features worked.
“This is appalling,” she exclaimed. “Some thief, knowing it priceless, must have stolen the diary. It will be published in America. It will bring in thousands—but to others, not to us.”
She began to wring her hands. It was near midnight.
“Think, my love, think!” cried Mr. Greyne. “Where could you have taken it? You had it last night?”
“Certainly. I remember writing in it that you would be sailing to Algiers on the Général Bertrand on Thursday of this week, and that on the night I should be feeling widowed here. The previous night I wrote that yesterday I should have to tell you of your mission. You know I always put down beforehand what I shall do, what I shall even think on each succeeding day. It is a practice that regulates the mind and conduct, that helps to uniformity.”
“How true! Who can have taken it? Do you ever leave it about?”
“Never. Am I a madwoman?”
“My darling, compose yourself! We must search the house.”
They proceeded to do so, and, on coming into the schoolroom, Mrs. Greyne, who was in front, uttered a sudden cry.