“He would have telegraphed,” said Mr Loman.
“There is no telegraph office there,” said the Doctor; “the Grandham people have to come here or to Dallingford to telegraph.”
They waited an hour, but Oliver did not return.
The night became more and more stormy. The bleak February wind whistled among the chimneys, and the hard rain beat pitilessly at the windows and on the gravel walk outside.
The Doctor rose and pulled up the blind and looked out. It was a dreary prospect. The rain had turned to sleet, and the wind was growing fast to a gale. The trees round the house creaked and groaned beneath it.
“It is a dreadful night,” said the Doctor. “Those two poor boys!”
No one else said anything. The storm grew fiercer and fiercer. Boys in their dormitories sit up in bed and listened to the roar of the wind as it howled round the house. And that silent party in the Doctor’s study never once thought of seeking rest. Midnight came; but no Oliver, no Loman—and the storm as furious as ever.
Presently there came a soft knock at the door, which made every one start suddenly as the door opened.
It was Stephen in his night-shirt. He, like every one else, had been awakened by the storm. Oliver was the monitor of his dormitory; and now for the first time the boy missed his elder brother. Where was Oliver? he asked. No one could say. He had been out all day, and no one had seen him since he got back.
This was enough for Stephen. With bounding heart and quivering lips he sprang from his bed and hurried down stairs. There was a light in the Doctor’s study; and there he went.