Crofts Pendleton had returned; he was beside us on the heels of my latest speech, and his face revealed excitement somewhat chastened by alarm.
“Shall I tell ’em all at once?”
“But what’s to tell?” asked Maryvale.
“He wasn’t on the night train, but the station-keeper thinks someone like him came up in the afternoon. How he—supposing it was he—missed getting in the motor—there Wheeler was waiting for him especially—unless he wanted the walk—he would—well, shall I?”
“It will raise nobody’s spirits,” said Maryvale. “But suppose you do.”
“Hughes and the men are back from below the bridge,” muttered Crofts. “They’ve seen nothing of him either.” He clapped his hands for attention.
I kept my eyes on Crofts while he made his statement, but out of the tail of one I noticed that Maryvale was scanning the inhabitants of the Hall, as if to catch the effect upon each. The effect was strong. When my eye took in the room, everyone had laid down his cards and was looking at the blank countenance across the table. There was hardly a word spoken; no one asked a question. Then Eve Bartholomew took up her hand once more.
“Sir Brooke is a sensible man,” she announced. “He has probably returned to New Aidenn to put up for the night. And there are men looking for him if he is lost. Let’s go on playing.”
By her determination, which at the time I divined to be only a courageous sham, she drew the widely surmising minds in the room back to a focus on bridge. A few minutes later Maryvale, with a courteous but irresistible gesture, waved Pendleton into his place at the table opposite Charlton Oxford, and my host picked up the newly-dealt cards with perturbed countenance. Maryvale rested a foot on the fire-dogs—they were of much later date than the fireplace itself, their brass enriched with blue and white enamel—and took from the mantel-shelf a long-stemmed clay pipe, a veritable churchwarden. This he carefully packed with a shaggy sort of tobacco and smoked with deep-drawn pleasure, having offered me an excellent cigar, which I declined in memory and anticipation of flight from bulls.
Presently, since Eve Bartholomew had given the fumes several looks askance, and sniffed, Maryvale with a smile led me to the nearest of two entrances of french windows, opened it, and stepped outside. I followed, descending a step or two to the drive beyond which lay the lawn. The air was mild again and the fog had become only a mystery in the trees.