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“As fine a pair of ducks, Mr. Audley, as ever you clapped eyes on, but burnt 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 went out together this morning.”

“What!” cried 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 wagon laden with trusses of hay crawling slowly past, the lazy horses and the lazy wagoner drooping their heads with a weary stoop under the afternoon’s sunshine. There was a flock of sheep straggling about the road, with a dog running himself into a fever in the endeavor to keep them decently together. There were some bricklayers just released from work—a tinker mending some kettles by the roadside; there was a dog-cart dashing down the road, carrying the master of the Audley hounds to his seven o’clock dinner; there were a dozen common village sights and sounds that mixed themselves up into a cheerful bustle and confusion; but there was no George Talboys.

“Of all the extraordinary things that ever happened to me in the whole course of my life,” said Mr. Robert Audley, “this is the most miraculous!”

The landlord still in attendance, opened his eyes as Robert made this remark. What could there be extraordinary in the simple fact of a gentleman being late for his dinner?”

“I shall go and look for him,” said Robert, snatching up his hat and walking straight out of the house.

But the question was where to look for him. He certainly was not by the trout stream, so it was no good going back there in search of him. Robert was standing before the inn, deliberating on what was best to be done, when the landlord came out after him.

“I forgot to tell you, Mr. Audley, as how your uncle called here five minutes after you was gone, and left a message, asking of you and the other gentleman to go down to dinner at the Court.”

“Then I shouldn’t wonder,” said Robert, “if George Talboys has gone down 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 knocked at the door of his uncle’s house. He did not ask to see any of the family, but inquired at once for his friend.

Yes, the servant 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 remembered the hour because it was the servants’ dinner hour, and he had left the table to open the door to Mr. Talboys.

“Why, what can have become of the man?” thought Robert, as he turned his back upon the Court. “From two till six—four good hours—and no signs of him!”

If any one had ventured to tell Mr. Robert Audley that he could possibly feel a strong attachment to any creature breathing, that cynical gentleman would have elevated his eyebrows in supreme contempt at the preposterous notion. Yet here he was, flurried and anxious, bewildering his brain by all manner of conjectures about his missing friend; and false to every attribute of his nature, walking fast.

“I haven’t walked fast since I was at Eton,” he murmured, as he hurried across one of Sir Michael’s meadows in the direction of the village; “and the worst of it is, that I haven’t the most remote idea where I am going.”

Here he crossed another meadow, and then seating himself upon a stile, rested his elbows upon his knees, buried his face in his hands, and set himself seriously to think the matter out.

“I have it,” he said, after a few minutes’ thought; “the railway station!” He sprang over the stile, and started off in the direction of the little red brick building.