“We'll have a search,” answered the first voice.
They stood for a moment in the drawing-room door, peering, and then they entered. There were five of them. Two looked to be gentlemen, and three were of rougher appearance. They carried lanterns.
“That window's open,” said one of the gentlemen. “They must have been here to-day. Hello, what's this?” He started back in surprise.
I slid down from the window-seat, and stood facing them, not knowing what else to do. They, too, seemed equally confounded.
“It must be Temple's son,” said one, at last. “I had thought the family at Temple Bow. What's your name, my lad?”
“David Trimble, sir,” said I.
“And what are you doing here?” he asked more sternly.
“I was left in Mr. Temple's care by my father.”
“Oho!” he cried. “And where is your father?”
“He's gone to fight the Cherokees,” I answered soberly. “To skin a man named Cameron.”