“What do you mean, dear?”
“He went out last night about seven o'clock, and has n't come back since.” She wrung her hands. “I thought you might be able to tell me something.”
He could only look at her in blank dismay, and question her as to John's latest known movements. There was very little to tell.
“He had an appointment in town after lunch, which was the last time I saw him. I heard him come in about a quarter to seven and go straight into his study—”
“He left me about half-past five—at the club,” said Herold. “He was all nerves and crazy-headedness. He almost quarrelled with me. He said he had n't slept for weeks.”
“He has n't,” said Unity. “That's what makes me so frightened.”
“Well, go on.”
“I heard him come in. I was in the kitchen helping Phoebe. A few minutes afterward I heard him walk down the passage—you know his quick, heavy tread—and go out again, slamming the street door. We waited dinner for ever so long, and he did n't come. And then it was bedtime. Aunt Gladys was n't anxious, because nothing that guardian did now would surprise her. She's like that, you know. And I did n't think very much about it at first, because he's always irregular. But when it came to two and three and four o'clock in the morning—I can never go to sleep till I hear him come in, you know,” she explained simply—“then I was terribly anxious—”
“Why did n't you ring me up during the night?” Herold asked.
“I thought of it; but I did n't like to disturb you. I did early this morning, but your servant said you had already gone down to Southcliff. Oh, I was so hoping,” she sighed, “that he had gone to Southcliff, too! There was a letter waiting for him—”