“All his household have failed to find him.  Our messengers have been sent in every direction without discovering the slightest clew to his—­fate,” gloomily replied the judge.

Mr. Rockharrt turned to the porter, who was still in attendance at the door, and demanded: 

“Where is your mistress?”

The man, a negro and an old family servant of the Rockharrts, replied: 

“The young madam is in the back drawing room, sir; and if you please, sir, I think she would be all the better for seeing the old madam.”

“Who is with her now?” shortly demanded Mr. Rockharrt, ignoring his servant’s suggestion, although Mrs. Rockharrt looked nervously anxious to follow it “There is no one with her, sir.”

“Alone!  Alone!  My granddaughter left alone on the morning after her marriage?  What do you mean by that?  Where is your master?

“Show me in to your mistress at once.  I will get at the bottom of this mystery, or this villainy, as it is more likely to prove, before I am through with the matter.  And if my granddaughter’s husband is not to be found before the day is out, I will have all concerned in the plot arrested for conspiracy!” exclaimed Mr. Rockharrt, with that utter recklessness of assertion to which he was addicted in moments of excitement.

The dismayed negro lowered his eyes and led the way.  Aaron Rockharrt strode on, followed by his timid and terrified old wife, his stalwart sons, his mocking grandson, and the members of the committee.  But the old man, not liking such an escort, turned upon them, and said, with sarcastic politeness and dignity: 

“Gentlemen, permit me.  It is expedient, under existing circumstances, that I should first see my granddaughter alone.”

The members of the committee bowed with offended dignity and withdrew to the front of the hall.

Meanwhile Aaron Rockharrt sent back the members of his own family, and strode solemnly into the drawing room, which was half darkened by the closed window shutters.

“Now leave the room, sir; shut the door after you and stand on the outside to keep off all intruders,” commanded Mr. Rockharrt to the servant who had admitted him.

When the door was closed upon him, Aaron Rockharrt discerned his granddaughter, who sat in an easy chair in a dark corner of the back drawing room, which was divided from the front by blue satin and white lace portieres.  Her deadly pallid face gleamed out from the shadows in startling contrast to her jet black hair and the black dress which, against all precedent, she wore on this the morning after her marriage.

The old man of iron went up and stood before her, looking at her in silence for a few moments.

“Corona Rothsay,” he began, sternly, “what is the meaning of this unparalleled situation?”

“I—­I—­do not know.”

“You do not know where your husband is on the morning after his marriage and on the day of his expected inauguration?”