MISSING.
When Robert Audley he was to see the fishing-rod on the bank, the line in the water, and the up and in the sunshine. The was a long time his arms and in to himself, by means of such exercise, that he still the proper use of those members; then, with a effort, he to from the grass, and having his railway into a shape for over his shoulder, he away to look for George Talboys.
Once or twice he gave a shout, loud to the in the above his head, or the in the at his feet: but no answer, of the exertion, and on, as he went, and still looking for George Talboys.
By-and-by he took out his watch, and was to that it was a past four.
"Why, the selfish must have gone home to his dinner!" he muttered, reflectively; "and yet that isn't much like him, for he his unless I his memory."
Even a good appetite, and the knowledge that his dinner would very likely by this delay, not Mr. Robert Audley's dawdle, and by the time he in at the door of the Sun, the were five. He so to George Talboys waiting for him in the little sitting-room, that the of that to give the a look, and Robert aloud.
"This is lively!" he said. "A cold dinner, and nobody to eat it with!"
The of the Sun came himself to for his dishes.
"As a pair of ducks, Mr. Audley, as you on, but up to a cinder, along of being kep' hot."
"Never mind the ducks," Robert said impatiently; "where's Mr. Talboys?"
"He ain't been in, sir, since you out together this morning."
"What!" Robert. "Why, in heaven's name, what has the man done with himself?"
He walked to the window and looked out upon the broad, white high road. There was a with of slowly past, the lazy and the lazy their with a under the afternoon's sunshine. There was a of sheep about the road, with a dog himself into a in the to keep them together. There were some just from work—a some by the roadside; there was a dog-cart the road, the master of the Audley to his seven o'clock dinner; there were a dozen common village and that mixed themselves up into a and confusion; but there was no George Talboys.
"Of all the that to me in the whole of my life," said Mr. Robert Audley, "this is the most miraculous!"
The still in attendance, opened his as Robert this remark. What there be in the of a being late for his dinner?
"I shall go and look for him," said Robert, up his and walking out of the house.
But the question was where to look for him. He was not by the stream, so it was no good going there in search of him. Robert was the inn, on what was best to be done, when the came out after him.
"I to tell you, Mr. Audley, as how your uncle called here five minutes after you was gone, and left a message, of you and the other to go to dinner at the Court."
"Then I shouldn't wonder," said Robert, "if George Talboys has gone to the Court to call upon my uncle. It isn't like him, but it's just possible that he has done it."
It was six o'clock when Robert at the door of his uncle's house. He did not ask to see any of the family, but at once for his friend.
Yes, the told him; Mr. Talboys had been there at two o'clock or a little after.
"And not since?"
"No, not since."
Was the man sure that it was at two Mr. Talboys called? Robert asked.
Yes, perfectly sure. He the hour it was the servants' dinner hour, and he had left the table to open the door to Mr. Talboys.
"Why, what can have of the man?" Robert, as he his upon the Court. "From two till six—four good hours—and no of him!"
If any one had to tell Mr. Robert Audley that he possibly a to any breathing, that would have his in at the notion. Yet here he was, and anxious, his brain by all manner of about his missing friend; and false to every of his nature, walking fast.
"I haven't walked fast since I was at Eton," he murmured, as he across one of Sir Michael's in the direction of the village; "and the of it is, that I haven't the most idea where I am going."
Here he another meadow, and then seating himself upon a stile, rested his upon his knees, his in his hands, and set himself to think the out.
"I have it," he said, after a minutes' thought; "the railway station!" He over the stile, and started off in the direction of the little red building.
There was no train for another hour, and the was taking his tea in an on one of the office, on the door of which was in large, white letters, "Private."
But Mr. Audley was too much with the one idea of looking for his friend to pay any attention to this warning. He at once to the door, and his against it, the out of his in a from tea, and with his mouth full of and butter.
"Do you the that came to Audley with me, Smithers?" asked Robert.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Audley, I can't say that I do. You came by the four o'clock, if you remember, and there's always a good many by that train."
"You don't him, then?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"That's provoking! I want to know, Smithers, he has taken a ticket for London since two o'clock to-day. He's a tall, broad-chested fellow, with a big beard. You couldn't well mistake him."
"There was four or five as took for the 3.30 up," said the vaguely, an over his at his wife, who looked by no means pleased at this to the of the tea-table.
"Four or five gentlemen! But did either of them answer to the of my friend?"
"Well, I think one of them had a beard, sir."
"A dark-brown beard?"
"Well, I don't know, but it was brownish-like."
"Was he in gray?"
"I it was gray; a great many wear gray. He asked for the ticket and short-like, and when he'd got it walked out onto the whistling."
"That's George," said Robert. "Thank you, Smithers; I needn't trouble you any more. It's as clear as daylight," he muttered, as he left the station; "he's got one of his on him, and he's gone to London without saying a word about it. I'll Audley myself to-morrow morning; and for to-night—why, I may as well go to the Court and make the of my uncle's wife. They don't till seven; if I across the I shall be in time. Bob—otherwise Robert Audley—this of thing will do; you are over and ears in love with your aunt."