Miss Latimer and Tom looked at each other aghast.
“We must go downstairs at once and set the house going,” decided the old lady, “and we must not make any noise nor fuss till we have seen Mrs. Challoner.”
As they passed downstairs, Lucy came out of her room, with the white, deeply graven face which tells of restless vigil. After a sleepless night she had slept heavily towards morning, and had only awakened with the sound of Tom’s gong.
“We are all rather behind-hand,” Miss Latimer said, “and something is the matter with Clementina.” That was the utmost she would say until she and Tom had lit the fires.
They found time to exchange a few whispered cogitations as they bustled about in the kitchen, into which they would not allow Lucy to intrude.
“I don’t believe Clementina is in her room,” said Miss Latimer, “and I hope not, for it means something bad if she is.”
“I do believe she has got frightened over our talk last night and has run away!” Tom remarked. “Who would have thought she would make tracks like this?”
“Where can she be?” asked Miss Latimer. “I remember Lucy saying she was so sorry for her because she knew nobody here, and didn’t seem inclined to make friends.”
“I hope she hasn’t committed suicide,” said Tom.
“Why should she commit suicide?” asked Miss Latimer quite sharply. It was her own fear.