The house was dull and empty without little Gwen’s bright smile and musical voice. This, he realised, was a foretaste of his loneliness when she was married.
Next day dragged by. The following day was cold and wet, and he spent it mostly alone in his study, after he had been round to the police-station and obtained a negative reply to his question as to whether his beloved daughter had been discovered.
That she was absent against her will he was convinced. She would never have left him in that manner to allow him to fear for her safety.
Seated alone, he brought out those large photographs of Diamond’s half-destroyed manuscript, and tried to centre his mind upon them. But, alas! he was unable. Therefore, as the short grey afternoon drew in, with a sigh he rose, put on his overcoat, and telling Laura he would not be back to dinner, he went forth to wander the London streets. He could bear the dead silence of that house no longer.
Just before seven o’clock the dining-room bell rang, and the dark-eyed parlour-maid, ascending the stairs, entered the room.
“Lor’, miss!” gasped the Cockney girl. “You did give me a fright! How long have you been ’ome?”
Gwen, who stood before her, pale and thin-faced and with hair slightly dishevelled, explained that she had just let herself in with the latch-key.
“The Professor’s out, miss. ’E said ’e wouldn’t be ’ome to dinner,” the girl remarked. “Oh, we’ve been very worried about you, miss! The perlice ’ave searched ’igh and low for yer. We all thought something dreadful ’ad ’appened. Wherever ’ave you been all these days?”
“That’s my own business,” answered the Professor’s daughter. “I’ve come back safe and sound, and I’m now going to my room. Tell my father when he comes in that I’m very tired. Perhaps he won’t return till late.”
“Shall I bring you up something, miss?” asked the girl.