“Where is Toft?” Mary asked.
“He’s away this ten minutes,” Mrs. Toft replied. “He’s gone to the Yew Walk, where you found the Master before. But law, Miss, if he’s there in this weather!” She lifted up her hands.
Mary controlled herself. “And Etruria?” she asked.
“She’s searching outside the house. If she does not find him she is to run over to Petch the keeper, and bring him.”
“Quite right,” Mary said. “Did Toft take any brandy?”
“He did. Miss. And the big kettle is on, if there is a bath wanted, and I’ve put a couple of bricks to heat in the oven.”
“You’re sure you’ve looked everywhere in the house?”
“As sure as can be, Miss! More by token, I’ve some coffee ready for you in the parlor.”
But Mary said, “Bring it here, Mrs. Toft.” And snatching up a shawl and folding it about her, she stepped outside. It was a gray, foggy morning, and the flagged court wore a desolate air. In one corner a crowd of dead leaves were circling in the gusts of wind, in another a little pile of snow had drifted, and between the monsters that flanked the Gateway, the old hound, deaf and crippled, stood peering across the park. Mary fancied that the dog descried Toft returning, and she ran across the court. But no one was in sight. The park with its clumps of dead bracken, its naked trees and gnarled blackthorns, stretched away under a thin sprinkling of snow. Shivering she returned to the hall, where Mrs. Toft awaited her with the coffee.
“Now,” Mary said, “tell me about it, please—from the beginning.”