Part 87

The Captain inspected his granddaughter's and Miss Cavendish's rooms, Macloud and Croyden, being discreet, the rooms on the other side of the house. They discovered nothing which would explain.

"We will have dinner," said the Captain. "They will surely turn up before we have finished."

The dinner ended, however, and the missing ones had not returned.

"Might they have gone for a drive?" Macloud suggested.

The Captain shook his head. "The keys of the stable are on my desk, which shows that the horses are in for the night. I admit I am at a loss--however, I reckon they will be in presently, with an explanation and a good laugh at us for being anxious."

But when nine o'clock came, and then half-after-nine, and still they did not appear, the men grew seriously alarmed.

The Captain had recourse to the telephone again, getting residence after residence, without result. At last he hung up the receiver.

"I don't know what to make of it," he said, bewildered. "I've called every place I can think of, and I can't locate them. What can have happened?"

"Let us see how the matter stands," said Macloud. "We left them here about half-after-five, and, so far as can be ascertained, no one has seen them since. Consequently, they must have gone out for a walk or a drive. A drive is most unlikely, at this time of the day--it is dark and cold. Furthermore, your horses are in the stable, so, if they went, they didn't go alone--some one drove them. The alternative--a walk--is the probable explanation; and that remits us to an accident as the cause of delay. Which, it seems to me, is the likely explanation."

"But if there were an accident, they would have been discovered, long since; the walks are not deserted," the Captain objected.

"Possibly, they went out of the town."

"A young woman never goes out of town, unescorted," was the decisive answer. "This is a Southern town, you know."

"I suppose you don't care to telephone the police?" asked Croyden.

"No--not yet," the Captain replied. "Davila would never forgive me, if nothing really were wrong--besides, I couldn't. The Mayor's office is closed for the night--we're not supposed to need the police after six o'clock."

"Then Croyden and I will patrol the roads, hereabout," said Macloud.

"Good! I will go out the Queen Street pike a mile or two," the Captain said. "You and Mr. Croyden can take the King Street pike, North and South. We'll meet here not later than eleven o'clock. Excuse me a moment----"

"What do you make of it?" said Macloud.

"It is either very serious or else it's nothing at all. I mean, if anything has happened, it's far out of the ordinary," Croyden answered.

"Exactly my idea--though, I confess, I haven't a notion what the serious side could be. It's safe to assume that they didn't go into the country--the hour, alone, would have deterred them, even if the danger from the negro were not present, constantly, in Miss Carrington's mind. On the other hand, how could anything have happened in the town which would prevent one of them from telephoning, or sending a message, or getting some sort of word to the Captain."

"It's all very mysterious--yet, I dare say, easy of solution and explanation. There isn't any danger of the one thing that is really terrifying, so I'm not inclined to be alarmed, unduly--just disquieted."

At this moment Captain Carrington returned.

"Here! take these," he said, giving each a revolver. "Let us hope there won't be any occasion to use them, but it is well to be prepared."

They went out together--at the intersection of Queen and King Streets, they parted.

"Remember! eleven o'clock at my house," said the Captain. "If any one of us isn't there, the other two will know he needs assistance."

Croyden went north on King Street. It was a chilly November night, with frost in the air. The moon, in its second quarter and about to sink into the waters of the Bay, gave light sufficient to make walking easy, where the useless street lamps did not kill it with their timid brilliancy. He passed the limits of the town, and struck out into the country. It had just struck ten, when they parted--he would walk for half an hour, and then return. He could do three miles--a mile and a half each way--and still be at the Carrington house by eleven. He proceeded along the east side of the road, his eyes busy lest, in the uncertain light, he miss anything which might serve as a clue. For the allotted time, he searched but found nothing--he must return. He crossed to the west side of the road, and faced homeward.

A mile passed--a quarter more was added--the feeble lights of the town were gleaming dimly in the fore, when, beside the track, he noticed a small white object.

It was a woman's handkerchief, and, as he picked it up, a faint odor of violets was clinging to it still. Here might be a clue--there was a monogram on the corner, but he could not distinguish it, in the darkness. He put it in his pocket and hastened on. A hundred feet farther, and his foot hit something soft. He groped about, with his hands, and found--a woman's glove. It, also, bore the odor of violets.

At the first lamp-post, he stopped and examined the handkerchief--the monogram was plain: E. C.--and violets, he remembered, were her favorite perfume. He took out the glove--a soft, undressed kid affair--but there was no mark on it to help him. He glanced at his watch. His time had almost expired. He pushed the feminine trifles back into his pocket, and hurried on.