“We can't find her. She's not in the house.”
“Not in the house!” shrieked Mrs. Hardacre.
Morland brought his hand down heavily on the piano.
“I heard the front door slam half an hour ago!”
“This is addressed to you, Mrs. Hardacre. It was stuck in her looking-glass.”
Mrs. Hardacre opened the note with shaky fingers. It ran:
“I mean what I say. I had better leave you all, at least till after Wednesday. My stopping here would be more than you or I could stand.”
Mr. Hardacre staggered with a gasp of pain to his feet, and his weak eyes glared savagely out of his puffy red face.
“Damme, she must come back! If she does n't sleep here to-night, I'll cut her off. I won't have anything more to do with her. She has got to come back.”
“All right. Go and tell her, then,” retorted his wife. “Where do you suppose you are going to find her?”