“The same has occurred to me. The poor old fellow, ashamed of his Mormon life, would very likely be unwilling that any one who knew of it should be informed of his whereabouts.”
“He might, too, have an undiscriminating, senile terror of any letter going to America, lest it should set Danites upon his track, as a renegade. He might fear that we would take his daughter from him. There are twenty suppositions to make. I will not accept that of death nor of neglect.”
“No,” said Biddulph; “dead people cannot hide away their bodies, as living can.”
“You know that they are in England?”
“They landed in Liverpool from the Screw. There they disappeared. Biddulph took me to Clitheroe, up to the old Hall. A noble place it is. It is poetry to have been born there. I do not wonder Mr. Clitheroe loved it.”
“You must go down with me, Wade, as soon as the season is over,” said Biddulph. “I wish I could quarter you in town. Brent is with me. But you will dine with us every day, when you have nothing better to do, and be at home with us always. I can give you flapjacks and molasses, Laramie fashion.”
“Thank you, my dear fellow!”
“You must not think,” says Brent, “that I went up to Clitheroe even for Biron’s hospitality. We were both on the search all through the country. We thought Mr. Clitheroe might have betaken himself to a coal-mine again. We discovered the very mine where he formerly worked. They remembered him well. The older generation of those grimy troglodytes well remembered Gentleman Hugh and his daughter, little Lady Ellen, and the rough fellows and their rough wives had a hundred stories to tell of the beautiful, gentle child,—how she had been a good angel to them, and already a protectress to her father. In the office, too, of the coal-mine, we found traces of him under another name, always faithful, honest, respected, and a gentleman. It was interesting to have all his sad story confirmed, just as he told it to you the night of Jake Shamberlain’s ball; but it did not help our search. Then we enlarged its scope, and followed out every line of travel from Liverpool and to London, the great monster, that draws in all, the prosperous and the ruined, the rich to spend and the poor to beg.
“We have had some queer and some romantic adventures in our search, eh, Brent? Some rather comic runaways we’ve overhauled,” said Biddulph; “but we’ll tell you of them, Wade, when we are in good spirits again, and with our fugitives by us to hear what pains we took for their sake.”
“And all this while you have found no trace?” I said.