Mrs. Dolman looked at him for a moment, in majestic silence; drew herself up to her full height, as though about to make a withering speech; remembered her position, and merely bade him “Good-night”; and walked, in a stately fashion, from the room.
For a long time, Ogledon paced the room restlessly—stopping every now and then, on the opposite side of the table to Cripps (who had fallen asleep, with an arm thrown lovingly round the decanter) to look at that gentleman doubtfully, as though half inclined to wake him, and endeavour to get something out of him. But at last, a new thought striking him, he rang the bell, and waited near the door until one of the sleepy men-servants answered the summons.
“Simms,” he said—not looking at the man, but keeping his eyes fixed on the floor—“has Harry Routley gone to bed?”
“Hours ago, sir,” replied the man.
“Wake him at once; tell him I want to see him.”
Some ten minutes later, Harry knocked at the door, and came in; having dressed hurriedly, and having all the appearance of one roused unexpectedly from sleep. Ogledon nodded to him, with a smile.
“Harry—I’m sorry to trouble you, at such an hour as this, but I am worried about Mr. Chater.”
At the mention of that name, the lad suddenly became rigid, and set his lips, as though with the determination to say nothing. Ogledon, after a pause, went on again, evidently disconcerted.
“We—Mr. Chater and I—have somehow—somehow missed each other. I was called—called abroad; I parted from him rather—hurriedly. Coming back to-night I hear from Mrs. Dolman that he—that he has gone away again.”
“Yes, sir. Last Wednesday.”