Was ever anything so unfortunate? Ah, yes, he did talk of visiting England, and that was the reason he could not himself escort Jules home.
Then I knew that I must brace my nerves to the terrible effort of telling that poor father that his child was lost; that I, by my cursed carelessness, had been the destroyer of his peace.
"Your son has mysteriously disappeared from my charge. Hasten here."
The answer was more perplexing than the one from Brussels: "Baron von Dressdorf not known—no such place as Kioske."
Heavens! Was I in a dream?
For three weeks I continued my search, wandering about in a haggard, broken manner, dreading every day to be stricken with brain fever. I could not sleep for thinking of the poor lad, whose big, pleading eyes seemed to look up into mine from every side. He haunted me.
One day I was watching the crowd pass the corner of the Thun Strasse, when my hand was clasped, and a cheery voice rang in my ear:
"Mortimer, old fellow, by all that's glorious! Who would ever have thought of meeting you here?"
It was Harvey Lawson, my old college chum.
"But you are sick, man. You look clean out of condition. Come up into my den—mind those stairs—here you are—take that arm-chair. You see I'm 'own correspondent' to the 'Daily Growler.' There's a pipe. Will you have beer or wine? And, now, what have you been doing with yourself?"