At this moment came a flash of lightning, followed by a crack like that of a cosmic whip-lash, and a long reverberating roar of thunder.

‘It is most foolish to have stayed out so late,’ said Mr. Macrae.  ’Any one could see that a storm was coming.  I told them so, I am really annoyed.’

Every one was silent, the rain fell straight and steady, the gravel in front of the window was a series of little lakes, pale and chill in the wan twilight.

’I really think I must send a couple of men down with cloaks and umbrellas,’ said the nervous father, pressing an electric knob.

The butler appeared.

‘Are Donald and Sandy and Murdoch about?’ asked Mr. Macrae.

‘Not returned from church, sir;’ said the butler.

‘There was likely to be a row at the Free Kirk,’ said Mr. Macrae, absently.

’You must go yourself, Benson, with Archibald and James.  Take cloaks and umbrellas, and hurry down towards the cove.  Mr. Blake and Miss Macrae have probably found shelter on the way somewhere.’

The butler answered, ‘Yes, sir;’ but he cannot have been very well pleased with his errand.  Merton wanted to offer to go, anything to be occupied; but Bude said nothing, and so Merton did not speak.

The four in the drawing-room sat chatting nervously:  ’There was nothing of course to be anxious about,’ they told each other.  The bolt of heaven never strikes the daughters of millionaires; Miss Macrae was indifferent to a wetting, and nobody cared tremulously about Blake.  Indeed the words ‘confound the fellow’ were in the minds of the three men.

The evening darkened rapidly, the minutes lagged by, the clock chimed the half-hour, three-quarters, nine o’clock.

Mr. Macrae was manifestly growing more and more nervous, Merton forgot to grow more and more hungry.  His tongue felt dry and hard; he was afraid of he knew not what, but he bravely tried to make talk with Lady Bude.

The door opened, letting the blaze of electric light from the hall into the darkling room.  They all turned eagerly towards the door.  It was only one of the servants.  Merton’s heart felt like lead.  ’Mr. Benson has returned, sir; he would be glad if he might speak to you for a moment.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Mr. Macrae.

‘At the outer door, sir, in the porch.  He is very wet.’

Mr. Macrae went out; the others found little to say to each other.

‘Very awkward,’ muttered Bude.  ’They cannot have been climbing the cliffs, surely.’

’The bridge is far above the highest water-mark of the burn, in case they crossed the water,’ said Merton.

Lady Bude was silent.

Mr. Macrae returned.  ‘Benson has come back,’ he said, ’to say that he can find no trace of them.  The other men are still searching.’

’Can they have had themselves ferried across the sea loch to the village opposite?’ asked Merton.