“Shouldn’t he be back by now?”
“He should, Miss, if he’s not found him,” Mrs. Toft answered. “But, if he’s found him, he couldn’t carry him! Toft’s not all that strong. And if the Master’s lain out long, it’s not all the brandy in the world will bring him round!”
Mary shuddered, and moved by a common impulse the two went out and crossed the court. The old hound was still at gaze in the gateway, still staring with purblind eyes down the vistas of the park. “Maybe he sees more than we see,” Mrs. Toft muttered. “He’d not stand there, would the old dog, as he’s stood twenty minutes, for nothing.”
She was right, for the next moment three figures appeared hurrying across the park towards them. It was impossible to mistake Toft’s lanky figure. The others were Etruria, with a shawl about her head, and the keeper Petch.
Mary scanned them anxiously. “Have they found him?” she murmured.
“No,” Mrs. Toft said. “If they’d found him, one would have stopped with him.”
“Of course,” Mary said. And heedless of the cold, searching wind that swung their skirts and carried showers of dead leaves sailing past them, they waited until Toft and the others, talking together, came up. Mary saw that, in spite of the pace at which he had walked, Toft’s face was colorless. He was almost livid. His daughter wore an anxious look, while the keeper was pleasantly excited.
As soon as the three were within hearing, “You’ve not found him?” Mary cried.
“No, Miss,” Etruria answered.
“Nor any trace?”