“I’m sure, ma’am,” said Mrs Jones, “I should never think of keeping these books if you or Mr Oldfield’s father wish to have them.”
“Oh, it is not that, it is not that,” sobbed Lady Oldfield. “Are you a mother, Mrs Jones?” she cried, turning abruptly to her.
“Yes, ma’am; I’ve had seven children, and five are living now.”
“Then you’ll understand my feelings as a mother. I fear, oh, I cannot say how terribly I fear, that poor Frank means to do something dreadful; perhaps to—to—oh, I can’t bear to think of it.”
“Why, my dear, why,” asked her husband, “should you think so?”
“Why, Thomas! Oh, isn’t there something terrible in his parting with these two books, my gift and dear Mary’s gift, and at such a time? Doesn’t it seem as if he was turning his back upon everything that is good and holy, and simply giving himself up to despair. Isn’t it like saying, ‘The Bible’s no longer a book for me, for God is no longer my God?’ Isn’t it like saying, ‘Prayer is no longer for me, for God will not hear me.’”
“My dearest wife,” said Sir Thomas, anxiously, “don’t look at the darkest side. Don’t lose your faith and trust now. My good Mrs Jones, you see we’re in sore trouble. You can understand how our hearts are almost broken about our erring son, but still he is our son, and very dear to us; and we want you to help us to find him, if it be possible.”
“I’m sure, sir,” replied the kind-hearted landlady, “I do feel for you both with all my heart, and only wish I knew what to advise. But really I know no more than yourselves where Mr Oldfield is likely to be found. It seems that he’s wished to keep it a secret, and so he has purposely kept me in the dark.”
Sir Thomas sighed.
“I understand exactly how it is,” he said. “I do not see what we can do, except endeavour to get a clue through the police. By the way, Mrs Jones, you don’t happen to know the names or lodgings of any of his associates? That might help us, if you did.”