We waited another half-hour, and no Billy appeared. Smith looked more and more anxious.
“I think,” said he, “we’d better go and look for him, Fred; what do you say?”
“I’ll come, certainly,” said I; “but where do you expect to find him?”
“If there is no sign of him in Style Street, I expect he’ll be in the court where his mother lives.”
I had a lively recollection of my last visit to that aristocratic thoroughfare. But I did not wish to seem unwilling to accompany Jack in his quest. Only I rather hoped we should find our man—or boy—in Style Street.
But that we did not do. The flagstone on which he was wont to establish his box was there, bare and unoccupied except for the scrawling letters and sums traced out with his finger-tip. High or low, he was not to be found in Style Street.
We went on in the growing dark towards the court.
“Do you know the house he lives at?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jack.
“Do you know what name to inquire for?”