The evening paper lay ready cut for him in its accustomed place, but for some five minutes Mr. Taynton did not appear to notice it, though evening papers, on the money-market page, might contain news so frightfully momentous to him.  But something, this strangeness in Morris, no doubt, and his general anxiety and suspense as to how this dreadful knot could unravel itself, preoccupied him now, and even when he did take up the paper and turn to the reports of Stock Exchange dealings, he was conscious of no more than a sort of subaqueous thrill of satisfaction.  For Boston Copper had gone up nearly a point since the closing price of last night.

It was not many minutes, however before Morris returned with matted and streaming hair and drenched clothes.

“He has not come back,” he said.  “I went to his rooms and satisfied myself of that, though I think they thought I was mad.  I searched them you understand; I insisted.  I shall go round there again first thing to-morrow morning, and if he is not there, I shall go up to find him in town.  I can’t wait; I simply can’t wait.”

Mr. Taynton looked at him gravely, then nodded.

“No, I guess how you are feeling,” he said, “I cannot understand what has happened to Mills; I hope nothing is wrong.  And now, my dear boy, let me implore you to go straight home, get off your wet things and go to bed.  You will pay heavily for your excitement, if you are not careful.”

“I’ll get it out of him.” said Morris.

CHAPTER VI

Morris, as Mr. Taynton had advised, though not because he advised it, had gone straight home to the house in Sussex Square.  He had stripped off his dripping clothes, and then, since this was the line of least resistance he had gone to bed.  He did not feel tired, and he longed with that aching longing of the son for the mother, that Mrs. Assheton had been here, so that he could just be in her presence and if he found himself unable to speak and tell her all the hideous happenings of those last days, let her presence bring a sort of healing to his tortured mind.  But though he was conscious of no tiredness, he was tired to the point of exhaustion, and he had hardly got into bed, when he fell fast asleep.  Outside, hushing him to rest, there sounded the sibilant rain, and from the sea below ripples broke gently and rhythmically on the pebbly beach.  Nature, too, it seemed, was exhausted by that convulsion of the elements that had turned the evening into a clamorous hell of fire and riot, and now from very weariness she was weeping herself asleep.