Downstairs they found no news and no comfort; but much coming and going. For presently the first party returned from its quest, and finding that nothing had been discovered, set forth again in a new direction. And by-and-by another returned, and standing ate something, and went out again, reinforced by Clyne himself. And so began a night of which the memory endured in the inn for a generation. Few slept, and those in chairs, ready to start up at the first alarm. The tap ran free for all; and in the coffee-room the table was set and set again. The Sunday’s joints—for the next day was Sunday—were cooked and cold, and half-eaten before the morning broke; and before breakfast the larder of the Salutation at Ambleside was laid under contribution. At intervals, those who dozed were aware of Nadin’s tall, bulky presence as he entered shaking the rime from his long horseman’s coat and calling for brandy; or of Bishop, who went and came all night, but in a frame of mind so humble and downcast that men scarcely knew him. And now and again a fresh band of searchers tramped in one behind the other, passed the news by a single shake of the head, and crowding to the table ate and drank before they turned to again—to visit a more distant, and yet a more distant part.
Even from the mind of the father, the boy’s loss seemed partly effaced by this later calamity. The mystery was so much the deeper: the riddle the more perplexing. The girl had gone out on foot in the full light of a clear afternoon; and within a few hundred yards of the place to which they had traced the boy, she had vanished as if she had never been. Clyne knew from her own lips that Walterson was somewhere within reach. But this did not help much, since no one could hit on the place. And various were the suggestions, and many and strange the solutions proposed. Every poacher and every ne’er-do-well was visited and examined, every house was canvassed, every man who had ever said aught that could be held to savour of radical doctrine, was considered. As the search spread to a wider and yet wider area, the alarm went with it, and new helpers arrived, men on horseback and men on foot. And all through the long winter’s night the house hummed; and the lights of the inn shone on the water as brightly and persistently as the stars that in the solemn firmament wheeled and marched.
But lamps and stars were alike extinguished, and the late dawn was filtering through the casements on jaded faces and pale looks, when the first gleam of encouragement showed itself. Clyne had been out for some hours, and on his return had paused at the door of the snuggery to swallow the cup of hot coffee, which the landlady pressed upon him. Nadin was still out, but Bishop was there and the chaplain, and two or three yeomen and peasants. In all hearts hope had by this time given way to dejection; and dejection was fast yielding to despair. The party stood, here and there, for the most part silent, or dropped now and again a despondent word.
Suddenly Modest Ann appeared among them, with her head shrouded in her apron. And, “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” the woman cried hysterically. “I must speak!”
A thrill of amazement ran through the group. They straightened themselves.
“If you know anything, speak by all means!” Clyne said, for surprise tied Mrs. Gilson’s tongue. “Do you know where the lady is?”
“No! no!”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Nothing! nothing!” the woman answered, sobbing wildly, and still holding the apron drawn tightly over her face. “Missus, don’t kill me! She told me naught! Naught! But——”
“Well—what? What?”