“Hum!” thought Robert. “My
lady tells little childish white lies; the bruise
is of a more recent date than a few days ago; the skin
has only just begun to change color.”
Sir Michael took the slender wrist in his strong hand.
“Hold the candle, Robert,” he said, “and
let us look at this poor little arm.”
It was not one bruise, but four slender, purple marks,
such as might have been made by the four fingers of
a powerful hand, that had grasped the delicate wrist
a shade too roughly. A narrow ribbon, bound tightly,
might have left some such marks, it is true, and my
lady protested once more that, to the best of her
recollection, that must have been how they were made.
Across one of the faint purple marks there was a darker
tinge, as if a ring worn on one of those strong and
cruel fingers had been ground into the tender flesh.
“I am sure my lady must tell white lies,”
thought Robert, “for I can’t believe the
story of the ribbon.”
He wished his relations good-night and good-by at
about half past ten o’clock; he should run up
to London by the first train to look for George in
Figtree Court.
“If I don’t find him there I shall go
to Southampton,” he said; “and if I don’t
find him there—”
“What then?” asked my lady.
“I shall think that something strange has happened.”
Robert Audley felt very low-spirited as he walked
slowly home between the shadowy meadows; more low-spirited
still when he re-entered the sitting room at Sun Inn,
where he and George had lounged together, staring
out of the window and smoking their cigars.
“To think,” he said, meditatively, “that
it is possible to care so much for a fellow!
But come what may, I’ll go up to town after him
the first thing to-morrow morning; and, sooner than
be balked in finding him, I’ll go to the very
end of the world.”
With Mr. Audley’s lymphatic nature, determination
was so much the exception rather than the rule, that
when he did for once in his life resolve upon any
course of action, he had a certain dogged, iron-like
obstinacy that pushed him on to the fulfillment of
his purpose.
The lazy bent of his mind, which prevented him from
thinking of half a dozen things at a time, and not
thinking thoroughly of any one of them, as is the
manner of your more energetic people, made him remarkably
clear-sighted upon any point to which he ever gave
his serious attention.
Indeed, after all, though solemn benchers laughed
at him, and rising barristers shrugged their shoulders
under rustling silk gowns, when people spoke of Robert
Audley, I doubt if, had he ever taken the trouble
to get a brief, he might not have rather surprised
the magnates who underrated his abilities.
STILL MISSING.
The September sunlight sparkled upon the fountain
in the Temple Gardens when Robert Audley returned
to Figtree Court early the following morning.
