‘I rather doubt if we shall see him again.’
‘Had I known of this, I would have done what in my flurry I did not think of doing—set a watch upon him. But why not advertise for your missing wife as a preliminary, consulting your solicitor in the meantime?’
‘Advertise. I’ll think about it,’ said Manston, lingering on the word as he pronounced it. ‘Yes, that seems a right thing—quite a right thing.’
He went home and remained moodily indoors all the next day and the next—for nearly a week, in short. Then, one evening at dusk, he went out with an uncertain air as to the direction of his walk, which resulted, however, in leading him again to the rectory.
He saw Mr. Raunham. ‘Have you done anything yet?’ the rector inquired.
‘No—I have not,’ said Manston absently. ‘But I am going to set about it.’ He hesitated, as if ashamed of some weakness he was about to betray. ‘My object in calling was to ask if you had heard any tidings from Budmouth of my—Cytherea. You used to speak of her as one you were interested in.’
There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston’s tone now, and the rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied.
‘I have not heard directly from her,’ he said gently. ‘But her brother has communicated with some people in the parish—’
‘The Springroves, I suppose,’ said Manston gloomily.
‘Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry to say, likely to be for some days.’