Oldfield was slow to seat himself again, after his greeting to his guests. Manifestly, he thought, his easy chair would not do for him during the coming interview. He selected a high-backed cane-seat chair from those around the writing table, and as he had already twice said, "Good morning, Mrs. Chester," and "I am very glad to meet you"—the last being a wicked perversion of his real emotions—he waited for the party of the second part to open the business of the meeting.
"We have come to you—and hope you will pardon us for troubling you, Mr. Oldfield—"
The club man saw that Mrs. Chester was not going to cry, and took courage.
"We need your help," the lady continued, "and we are sure you will give it to us."
"I shall be very glad if I can in any way assist or oblige you, Mrs. Chester," Oldfield assured the elder lady, while he looked determinedly away from the younger one, who, he was positive, was getting ready to cry. "What do you want me to do? Ned isn't in any trouble is he?" This was going straight to the point, as Mr. Oldfield knew full well.
Of course, Ned Chester was at the bottom of this spectacular disturbance of his morning. It might as well be out and over the sooner.
"Oh! Mr. Oldfield," cried the daughter, "have you seen papa?"
She was bound to cry, if she hadn't already begun. Oldfield was sure of it.
"Catherine!" expostulated the girl's mother, and Oldfield noticed the sharp acrimony of voice and gesture. "Mr. Oldfield," she softened as she addressed him, but there was a hardness about her every feature and expression, "my husband has not been seen nor heard from since last Sunday, when he left home, and I am almost distracted."
"And we have waited until we can bear it no longer. This is Friday—it is almost a week," broke in the girl, ignoring her mother's protesting wave of the hand and angry glance.