"Oh, he's all right," asserted Oldfield. "Don't worry. We will find him at once; I'm sure some one in the club will know all about him. You have, of course, inquired at his office?"
"Yes, and no one there knows anything about him. His letters lie unopened on his desk; he has not been there since Saturday."
There was no occasion for all this fencing. The heaven's truth, known to all three, was that Ned Chester was away on a symmetrical and gigantic spree, according to his custom once or twice a year.
Oldfield, looking straight at Mrs. Chester's slightly bent brow, said, quietly, "I have known Ned Chester for twenty years; it is no new thing for him to be away for a day or a night occasionally, is it?"
"No," replied the poor wife, "but he has never stayed so long before, and I know something has happened—he has been hurt, may be killed. We must find him!"
"You say he left home Sunday?"
"Yes, Sunday evening. He left in a fit of anger over some little thing, and now—"
She was dangerously near breaking down, and Oldfield could plainly hear smothered sobs beside him on the side of his chair toward which he chose not to look.
"I will inquire," he said, hopefully, "and I know I can find him almost immediately. Nothing has happened to hurt him. Sit here a moment and wait for me."
Just outside the door Oldfield met Joseph. "Well, where is he?" he asked.