“Can I come in, Miss?”
The voice was Mrs. Toft’s, and Mary needed no second warning. She knew in a moment that the woman brought bad news. She sprang out of bed, put on a dressing-gown, and with bare feet she went to the door. She unlocked it. “What is it, Mrs. Toft?” she said.
“Maybe not much,” the woman answered cautiously. “I hope not, Miss, but I had to tell you. The Master is missing.”
“Missing?” Mary exclaimed, the blood leaving her face. “Impossible! Why, I saw him, I was in his room last evening after nine o’clock.”
“Toft was with him up to eleven,” Mrs. Toft answered. Her face was grave. “But he’s gone now?”
“You mean that he is not in his room!” Mary said. “But have you looked——” and she named places where her uncle might be—places in the house.
“We’ve looked there,” Mrs. Toft answered. “Toft’s been everywhere. The Master’s not in the house. We’re well-nigh sure of that. And the door in the courtyard was open this morning. I am afraid he’s gone, Miss.”
“In his state and at night? Why, it’s——” The girl broke off and took hold of herself. “Very well,” she said. “I shall not be more than five minutes. I will come down.”
CHAPTER XXVI
MISSING
Mary scrambled into her clothes without pausing to do more than knot up her hair. She tried to steady her nerves and to put from her the thought that it was her visit which had upset her uncle. That thought would only flurry her, and she must be cool. In little more than the five minutes that she had named she was in the hall, and found Mrs. Toft waiting for her. The door into the courtyard stood open, the bleak light and raw air of a January morning poured in, but neither of them heeded this. Their eyes met, and Mary saw that the woman, who was usually so placid, was frightened.