“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Is it high tide?” she asked.

“In another hour.”  And some one added out of the darkness, “Don’t you be feared, ma’am; children and chickens come home to roost.”

Mrs. Beauchamp thanked him gratefully and felt comforted.

Again she wearily climbed the steps, and flew rather than walked down the long Parade.  The flickering gas lamps showed between patches of darkness, the rain drizzled on, and she felt helpless and bewildered, not knowing where to turn next.  Wherever Dickie was, bronchitis must be dogging his footsteps, and all the time she seemed to hear Susie’s voice appealing to her.  Poor Susie! who always came back to her best friend—­who was always so sorry afterwards!

She spoke to the policeman at the corner of the Parade, and he was very determined.  He would go to the police station and give notice, he said; but there wasn’t the least use in her wearing herself out by running on into the town.  He knew the young lady from No. 17 quite well by sight—­a very sensible young lady!—­and he was as certain as that he stood there that she had not passed him since five o’clock.  She was on the beach then with the little boy and some other young ladies and gentlemen; he had seen them himself.  They were playing and shouting, and having a fine time.  No, he was quite certain he wasn’t making a mistake; he knew her by her face, and her brown plaits, and her scarlet jersey.  She certainly was playing with other children.

Mrs. Beauchamp tried to push aside the urgent fear that was knocking at her heart.  If even the policeman had confidence in Susie, should her mother be behindhand?  She told the policeman, for his information and her own comfort, that she was only frightened because the little boy had been ill, and it was such a cold, wet night, but at the same time she thought she would walk round to the town by the beach.  “And you will go to the police station?  Some one may have seen them.  I cannot feel satisfied doing nothing.”

“If you take my advice, lady,” said the policeman, “you should go home first.  Perhaps they’ll have got back, or perhaps the other young lady could give you an idea.  Children know a good deal of each other’s ways.”

The advice was sensible and practical, and Mrs. Beauchamp was relieved at any definite suggestion.  Amy might possibly know something about the others which she had not confided to nurse.  She caught at the hope, and fought her way back before the wind, up the long, wet Parade, until she stood, drenched and breathless, at the door.

Nurse opened it almost on her knock, and peered anxiously behind her into the dark, but Mrs. Beauchamp shook her head.

“No, I have done nothing,” she said, in a strained voice.  “I can’t think what to do—­no one has seen them, nurse.”

Her voice trembled a little, but she tried to smile.  She would not break down.

“I want to speak to Amy, nurse, and Master Tom; but Amy is less excitable.  Send them to me on the stairs here; we must not wake baby.”