TROUBLED DREAMS.
Robert Audley left Southampton by the mail, and let himself into his just as the was cold and into the rooms, and the were to their in the early morning.
There were in the box the door, but there was none from George Talboys.
The was out by a long day in from place to place. The lazy of his life had been as it had been in eight-and-twenty tranquil, easy-going years. His mind was to upon the point of time. It to him months since he had of George Talboys. It was so difficult to that it was less than forty-eight hours ago that the man had left him asleep under the by the stream.
His were for want of sleep. He about the room for some time, looking in all of places for a from George Talboys, and then himself upon his friend's bed, in the room with the and geraniums.
"I shall wait for to-morrow morning's post," he said; "and if that no from George, I shall start for Liverpool without a moment's delay."
He was exhausted, and into a sleep—a sleep which was without being in any way refreshing, for he was all the time by dreams—dreams which were painful, not from any in themselves, but from a and of their and absurdity.
At one time he was people and entering houses in the to the of the dispatch; at another time he was in the church-yard at Ventnor, at the George had ordered for the of his wife. Once in the long, of these he to the grave, and this gone, and on with the stonemason, was told that the man had a for the inscription; a that Robert would some day learn.
In another he saw the of Helen Talboys open, and while he waited, with the cold up his hair, to see the woman and him with her stiff, charnel-house about her limbs, his uncle's wife out of the open grave, in the in which the artist had painted her, and with her like red gold in the light that about her.
But into all these the places he had last been in, and the people with he had last been concerned, were interwoven—sometimes his uncle; sometimes Alicia; of all my lady; the in Essex; the lime-walk at the Court. Once he was walking in the black of this long avenue, with Lady Audley on his arm, when they a great in the distance, and his uncle's wife her arms around him, out that it was the day of judgment, and that all must now be told. Looking at her as she this in his ear, he saw that her had white, and that her were into serpents, and slowly her neck.
He started from his to that there was some one at the door of his chambers.
It was a dreary, wet morning, the rain against the windows, and the to each other—complaining, perhaps, of the weather. Robert not tell how long the person had been knocking. He had mixed the with his dreams, and when he he was only of other things.
"It's that Mrs. Maloney, I say," he muttered. "She may again for all I care. Why can't she use her key, of a man out of when he's with fatigue."
The person, it was, did again, and then desisted, out; but about a minute a key in the door.
"She had her key with her all the time, then," said Robert. "I'm very I didn't up."
The door the sitting-room and bed-room was open, and he see the about, the furniture, and that had been disarranged.
"Is that you, Mrs. Maloney?" he asked.
"Yes, sir,"
"Then why, in goodness' name, did you make that at the door, when you had a key with you all the time?"
"A at the door, sir?"
"Yes; that knocking."
"Sure I knocked, Mister Audley, but walked in with my kay—"
"Then who did knock? There's been some one kicking up a at that door for a of an hour, I should think; you must have met him going down-stairs."
"But I'm late this morning, sir, for I've been in Mr. Martin's rooms first, and I've come from the above."
"Then you didn't see any one at the door, or on the stairs?"
"Not a soul, sir."
"Was anything so provoking?" said Robert. "To think that I should have let this person go away without who he was, or what he wanted! How do I know that it was not some one with a message or a from George Talboys?"
"Sure if it was, sir, he'll come again," said Mrs. Maloney, soothingly.
"Yes, of course, if it was anything of he'll come again," Robert. The was, that from the moment of the message at Southampton, all of of George had out of his mind. He that there was some in the of his friend—some toward himself, or toward George. What if the man's old father-in-law had to them on account of the trust in Robert Audley's hands? Or what if, since in these days all of are committed—what if the old man had George to Southampton, and away with him in order to of that £20,000, left in Robert's for little Georgey's use?
But neither of these the message, and it was the message which had Robert's mind with a of alarm. The no from George Talboys, and the person who had at the door of the did not return seven and nine o'clock, so Robert Audley left Figtree Court once more in search of his friend. This time he told the to drive to the Euston Station, and in twenty minutes he was on the platform, making about the trains.
The Liverpool had started an hour he the station, and he had to wait an hour and a for a slow train to take him to his destination.
Robert Audley at this delay. Half a dozen might sail for Australia while he up and the long platform, over trucks and porters, and at his ill-luck.
He the Times newspaper, and looked at the second column, with a in the of people missing—sons, brothers, and husbands who had left their homes, to return or to be of more.
There was one of a man on the Lambeth shore.
What if that should have been George's fate? No; the message his father-in-law in the of his disappearance, and every about him must start from that one point.
It was eight o'clock in the when Robert got into Liverpool; too late for anything to make as to what had the last two days for the antipodes.
An ship had at four o'clock that afternoon—the Victoria Regia, for Melbourne.
The result of his to this—If he wanted to out who had in the Victoria Regia, he must wait till the next morning, and apply for of that vessel.
Robert Audley was at the office at nine o'clock the next morning, and was the person after the who entered it.
He met with every from the to he applied. The man to his books, and his pen the list of who had in the Victoria Regia, told Robert that there was no one among them of the name of Talboys. He pushed his further. Had any of the entered their names a time of the vessel's sailing?
One of the other looked up from his as Robert asked this question. Yes, he said; he a man's into the office at half-past three o'clock in the afternoon, and paying his passage money. His name was the last on the list—Thomas Brown.
Robert Audley his shoulders. There have been no possible for George's taking a name. He asked the who had last spoken if he the of this Mr. Thomas Brown.
No; the office was at the time; people were in and out, and he had not taken any particular notice of this last passenger.
Robert thanked them for their civility, and them good-morning. As he was the office, one of the men called after him:
"Oh, by-the-by, sir," he said, "I one thing about this Mr. Thomas Brown—his arm was in a sling."
There was nothing more for Robert Audley to do but to return to town. He re-entered his at six o'clock that evening, out once more with his search.
Mrs. Maloney him his dinner and a of from a in the Strand. The was and chilly, and the had a good fire in the sitting-room grate.
After about a mutton-chop, Robert sat with his upon the table him, and into the blaze.
"George Talboys for Australia," he said, after long and painful reflection. "If he is alive, he is still in England; and if he is dead, his is in some of England."
He sat for hours and thinking—trouble and a dark upon his face, which neither the light of the the red of the fire dispel.
Very late in the he rose from his chair, pushed away the table, his over to the fire-place, took out a of fools-cap, and a pen in the ink.
But after doing this he paused, his upon his hand, and once more into thought.
"I shall up a record of all that has our going to Essex and to-night, at the very beginning."
He up this record in short, sentences, which he numbered as he wrote.
It ran thus:
"Journal of Facts with the Disappearance of George Talboys, of Facts which have no Relation to that Circumstance."
In of the of his mind, he was to be proud of the official of this heading. He sat for some time looking at it with affection, and with the of his pen in his mouth. "Upon my word," he said, "I to think that I ought to have my profession, of my life away as I have done."
He a cigar he had got his in proper train, and then to write:
"1. I to Alicia, to take George to the Court."
"2. Alicia writes, to the visit, on the part of Lady Audley."
"3. We go to Essex in of that objection. I see my lady. My lady to be to George on that particular on the score of fatigue."
"4. Sir Michael George and me to dinner for the evening."
"5. My lady a the next which her to London."
"6. Alicia me a from my lady, in which she to be told when I and my friend, Mr. Talboys, to Essex. To this is a postscript, the above request."
"7. We call at the Court, and ask to see the house. My lady's are locked."
"8. We at the by means of a passage, the of which is unknown to my lady. In one of the rooms we her portrait."
"9. George is at the storm. His is for the of the evening."
"10. George himself again the morning. I Audley Court immediately; he till the evening."
"11. We go out fishing. George me to go to the Court."
"12. The last positive I can obtain of him in Essex is at the Court, where the says he thinks Mr. Talboys told him he would go and look for my lady in the grounds."
"13. I about him at the station which may or may not be correct."
"14. I of him positively once more at Southampton, where, according to his father-in-law, he had been for an hour on the previous night."
"15. The message."
When Robert Audley had this record, which he up with great deliberation, and with for reflection, and erasures, he sat for a long time the page.
At last he read it over, stopping at some of the numbered paragraphs, and marking some of them with a pencil cross; then he the of foolscap, over to a cabinet on the opposite of the room, it, and the paper in that very pigeon-hole into which he had Alicia's letter—the pigeon-hole marked Important.
Having done this, he returned to his easy-chair by the fire, pushed away his desk, and a cigar. "It's as dark as midnight from to last," he said; "and the to the must be either at Southampton or in Essex. Be it how it may, my mind is up. I shall go to Audley Court, and look for George Talboys in a narrow radius."
