STILL MISSING.
The September upon the in the Temple Gardens when Robert Audley returned to Figtree Court early the morning.
He the in the little room in which George had slept, but the was in the same order in which the had it after the of the two men—not a chair displaced, or so much as the of a cigar-box lifted, to the presence of George Talboys. With a last, hope, he upon the and tables of his rooms, on the of some left by George.
"He may have slept here last night, and started for Southampton early this morning," he thought. "Mrs. Maloney has been here, very likely, to make tidy after him."
But as he sat looking around the room, now and then to his canaries, a upon the without the of that very Mrs. Maloney who waited upon the two men.
No, Mr. Talboys had not come home; she had looked in as early as six o'clock that morning, and the empty.
"Had anything to the poor, dear gentleman?" she asked, Robert Audley's face.
He around upon her at this question.
Happened to him! What should to him? They had only at two o'clock the day before.
Mrs. Maloney would have related to him the history of a dear engine-driver, who had once with her, and who out, after a dinner, in the best of spirits, to meet with his death from the of an and a train; but Robert put on his again, and walked out of the house the Irishwoman her story.
It was when he Southampton. He his way to the little of houses, in a full leading to the water, where George's father-in-law lived. Little Georgey was playing at the open window as the man walked the street.
Perhaps it was this fact, and the and of the house, which Robert Audley's mind with a that the man he came to look for was not there. The old man himself opened the door, and the child out of the to see the gentleman.
He was a boy, with his father's and dark hair, and with some which was not his father's and which his whole face, so that although each of the child the same in George Talboys, the boy was not actually like him.
Mr. Maldon was to see Robert Audley; he having had the of meeting him at Ventnor, on the occasion of—He his old by way of to the sentence. Would Mr. Audley walk in? Robert into the parlor. The was and dingy, and the place with the of tobacco and brandy-and-water. The boy's playthings, and the old man's pipes and torn, brandy-and-water-stained newspapers were upon the dirty carpet. Little Georgey toward the visitor, him out of his big, eyes. Robert took the boy on his knee, and gave him his watch-chain to play with while he talked to the old man.
"I need ask the question that I come to ask," he said; "I was in I should have your son-in-law here."
"What! you that he was to Southampton?"
"Knew that he was coming?" Robert, up. "He is here, then?"
"No, he is not here now; but he has been here."
"When?"
"Late last night; he came by the mail."
"And left again immediately?"
"He little than an hour."
"Good Heaven!" said Robert, "what that man has me! What can be the meaning of all this?"
"You nothing of his intention, then?"
"Of what intention?"
"I of his to go to Australia."
"I know that it was always in his mind more or less, but not more just now than usual."
"He to-night from Liverpool. He came here at one o'clock this to have a look at the boy, he said, he left England, to return. He told me he was of the world, and that the life out there was the only thing to him. He an hour, the boy without him, and left Southampton by the that at a quarter-past two."
"What can be the meaning of all this?" said Robert. "What be his for England in this manner, without a word to me, his most friend—without a of clothes; for he has left at my chambers? It is the most proceeding!"
The old man looked very grave. "Do you know, Mr. Audley," he said, his significantly, "I sometimes that Helen's death had a upon George."
"Pshaw!" Robert, contemptuously; "he the most cruelly, but his brain was as as yours or mine."
"Perhaps he will to you from Liverpool," said George's father-in-law. He to over any that Robert might at his friend's conduct.
"He ought," said Robert, gravely, "for we've been good friends from the days when we were together at Eton. It isn't of George Talboys to me like this."
But at the moment that he the a of through his heart.
"It isn't like him," he said, "it isn't like George Talboys."
Little Georgey at the sound. "That's my name," he said, "and my papa's name—the big gentleman's name."
"Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and you in your sleep. Do you remember?"
"No," said the boy, his little head.
"You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see papa."
The child did not answer, but presently, his upon Robert's face, he said abruptly:
"Where's the lady?"
"What lady?"
"The lady that used to come a long while ago."
"He means his mamma," said the old man.
"No," the boy resolutely, "not mamma. Mamma was always crying. I didn't like mamma—"
"Hush, little Georgey!"
"But I didn't, and she didn't like me. She was always crying. I the lady; the lady that was so fine, and that gave me my gold watch."
"He means the wife of my old captain—an excellent creature, who took a great to Georgey, and gave him some presents."
"Where's my gold watch? Let me the my gold watch," Georgey.
"It's gone to be cleaned, Georgey," answered his grandfather.
"It's always going to be cleaned," said the boy.
"The watch is perfectly safe, I you, Mr. Audley," the old man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker's duplicate, he it to Robert.
It was out in the name of Captain Mortimer: "Watch, set with diamonds, £11."
"I'm often hard pressed for a shillings, Mr. Audley," said the old man. "My son-in-law has been very to me; but there are others, there are others, Mr. Audley—and—and—I've not been well." He away some as he said this in a pitiful, voice. "Come, Georgey, it's time the little man was in bed. Come along with grandpa. Excuse me for a of an hour, Mr. Audley."
The boy very willingly. At the door of the room the old man looked at his visitor, and said in the same voice, "This is a place for me to pass my years in, Mr. Audley. I've many sacrifices, and I make them still, but I've not been well."
Left alone in the little sitting-room, Robert Audley his arms, and sat at the floor.
George was gone, then; he might some of perhaps, when he returned to London; but the were that he would see his old friend again.
"And to think that I should so much for the fellow!" he said, his to the center of his forehead.
"The place of tobacco like a tap-room," he presently; "there can be no in my a cigar here."
He took one from the case in his pocket: there was a of fire in the little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigar with.
A piece of paper upon the hearthrug; he it up, and it, in order to a pipe-light by it the other way of the paper. As he did so, at the upon the of thin paper, a of a name his eye—a of the name that was most in his thoughts. He took the of paper to the window, and it by the light.
It was part of a dispatch. The upper had been away, but the more part, the part of the message itself, remained.
"—alboys came to —— last night, and left by the for London, on his way to Liverpool, he was to sail for Sydney."
The date and the name and address of the of the message had been with the heading. Robert Audley's to a whiteness. He the of paper, and it the of his pocket-book.
"My God!" he said, "what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpool to-night, and make there!"
