Bishop left a man in the road, and sent two to the rear of the crazy, ruinous outbuildings which clung to the slope. With Clyne and the other three he passed round the corner of the house, stepped to the door and knocked. The sun’s first rays were striking the higher hills, westward of the lake, as the party, with stern faces, awaited the answer. But the lake, with its holms, and the valley and all the lower spurs, lay grey and still and dreary in the grip of cold. The note of melancholy went to the heart of one as he looked, and filled it with remorse.
“Too late,” it seemed to say, “too late!”
For a time no one came. And Bishop knocked again, and more imperiously; first sending a man to the lower end of the ragged garden to be on the look-out. He knocked a third time. At last a shuffling of feet was heard approaching the door, and a moment later old Hinkson opened it. He looked, as he stood blinking in the daylight, more frowsy and unkempt and to be avoided than usual. But—they noted with disappointment that the door was neither locked nor bolted; so that had they thought of it they might have entered at will!
“What is’t?” he drawled, peering at them. “Why did you na’ come in?”
Bishop pushed in without a word. The others followed. A glance sufficed to discover all that the kitchen contained; and Bishop, deaf to the old man’s remonstrances, led the way straight up the dark, close staircase. But though they explored without ceremony all the rooms above, and knocked, and called, and sounded, and listened, they stumbled down again, baffled.
“Where’s your daughter?” Bishop asked sternly.
“She was here ten minutes agone,” the old man answered. Perhaps because the day was young he showed rather more sense than usual. But his eyes were full of spite.
“Here, was she?”
“Ay.”
“And where’s she now?”