The magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as he sat and looked at him.
“I am come to tell you,” he said, “that we cannot find the priest.” He hesitated and stopped. “We have found several hiding-holes,” he went on, “and they are all empty. I—I hope there is no mistake.”
A little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the lethargy began to clear from his brain, like a morning mist when a breeze rises; he sat a little more upright and gripped the arms of his chair; he said nothing yet, but he felt power and resource flowing back to his brain, and the pulse in his temples quieted. Why, if the lad had not been taken yet, he must surely be out of the house.
“I trust there is no mistake,” said the magistrate again nervously.
“You may well trust so,” said the other; “it will be a grievous thing for you, sir, otherwise.”
“Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was sent for by Mr. Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It was not my wish——”
“Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to execute it. May I inquire how many of my cupboards you have broken into? And I hope your men are satisfied with my plate.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the magistrate, “there has been nothing of that kind. And as for the cupboards, there were but three——”
Three!—then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. But where?
“And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants’ rooms, and the stables as well as pierce all my panelling.”