“Nay, madam; though Lord Hartledon may not be here, Mr. Elster is.”

She had actually forgotten Val; and would have liked to ignore him now that he was recalled to remembrance; but that might not be.  As much contempt as could be expressed in her face was there, as she turned her snub nose and small round eyes defiantly upon that unoffending younger brother.

“I was going to request you to take it, sir,” said Percival, in low tones, to Dr. Ashton.  “I shall go off in the pony-carriage for Edward.  He must think we are neglecting him.”

“Very well.  I hate these rowing matches,” heartily added the Rector.

“What a curious old fish that parson must be!” ejaculated young Carteret to his next neighbour.  “He says he doesn’t like boating.”

It happened to be Arthur Ashton, and the lad’s brow lowered.  “You are speaking of my father,” he said.  “But I’ll tell you why he does not like it.  He had a brother once, a good deal older than himself; they had no father, and Arthur—­that was the elder—­was very fond of him:  there were only those two.  He took him out in a boat one day, and there was an accident:  the eldest was drowned, the little one saved.  Do you wonder that my father has dreaded boating ever since?  He seems to have the same sort of dread of it that a child who has been frightened by its nurse has of the dark.”

“By Jove! that was a go, though!” was the sympathising comment of Mr. Carteret.

The doctor said grace, and dinner proceeded.  It was not half over when Mr. Elster came in, in his light overcoat.  Walking straight up to the table, he stood by it, his face wearing a blank, perplexed look.  A momentary silence of expectation, and then many tongues spoke together.

“Where’s your brother?  Where’s Lord Hartledon?  Has he not come?”

“I don’t know where he is,” answered Val.  “I was in hopes he had reached home before me, but I find he has not.  I can’t make it out at all.”

“Did he land at the mill?” asked Dr. Ashton.

“Yes, he must have done so, for the skiff is moored there.”

“Then he’s all right,” cried the doctor; and there was a strangely-marked sound of relief in his tones.

“Oh, he is all right,” confidently asserted Percival.  “The only question is, where he can be.  The miller was out this afternoon, and left his place locked up; so that Hartledon could not get in, and had nothing for it but to start home with his lameness, or sit down on the bank until some one found him.”

“He must have set off to walk.”

“I should think so.  But where has he walked to?” added Val.  “I drove slowly home, looking on either side of the road, but could see nothing of him.”

“What should bring him on the side of the road?” demanded the dowager.  “Do you think he would turn tramp, and take his seat on a heap of stones?  Where do you get your ideas from?”

“From common sense, ma’am.  If he set out to walk, and his foot failed him half-way, there’d be nothing for it but to sit down and wait.  But he is not on the road:  that is the curious part of the business.”