“Not that I know of; but I will go at once and see.  Shall he drive you home?”

“Yes.  No—­to Dr. Amboyne.”

Dr. Amboyne was gone to Woodbine Villa.

She waited in his study, moving about the room all the time, with her face of marble, and her poor restless hands.

At last the doctor returned:  they told him at the door Miss Carden was there; he came in to her with both hands extended, and his face working with emotion.

She fell sobbing into his arms; sobbing, but not a tear.

“Is there any hope?”

“I have one.  May he not have left the country in a fit of despair?  He often threatened.  He talked of going to the United States.”

“So he did.  Ah, he called on me yesterday afternoon.  Might not that have been to bid me good-by?”

She looked so imploringly in Dr. Amboyne’s face that he assented, though full of doubt.

And now there was a ring at the bell, and Mr. Ransome came to say there was a little postern gate by which Mr. Little might possibly have gone out and the porter not seen him; and, what was more, this gate, by all accounts, had been recently opened:  it was closed before Bolt and Little took the premises.

Mr. Ransome added that he should now make it his business to learn, if possible, whether it had been opened by Mr. Little’s orders.

Grace thanked him earnestly, and looked hopeful; so did Dr. Amboyne.

“But, doctor,” said Grace, “if he has gone away at all, he must have told somebody.  Even if there was nobody he loved, he would tell—­ah!  Mr. Bolt!!”

“You are right.  Let us go to him at once.”

They found Mr. Bolt in quite a different frame of mind from their own; he was breathing vengeance.  However, he showed some feeling for Grace, and told the doctor plainly he feared the worst.  Little had been downhearted for some time, and at last he (Bolt) had lost patience with him, and had proposed to him to take an annual payment of nine hundred pounds instead of a share, and leave the concern.  Little had asked two days to consider this proposal.  “Now,” argued Bolt, “if he meant to leave England, he could not do better than take my offer:  and he would have taken it before he left.  He would have called, or else sent me a letter.  But no; not a word!  It’s a bad job:  I’m fond of money, but I’d give a few thousands to see him alive again.  But I don’t think I ever shall.  There are five hundred thousand bricks of ours in that river, and a foot and a half of mud.”

While they were both shuddering at this dark allusion, he went off into idle threats, and Grace left him, sick and cold, and clinging to Dr. Amboyne like a drowning woman.

“Have courage,” said Dr. Amboyne.  “There is one chance left us.  His mother!  I will telegraph to Aberystwith.”

They drove together to the telegraph-office, and sent a telegram.  The doctor would not consent to frighten Mrs. Little to death.  He simply asked whether her son had just visited or written to her.  The answer was paid for; but four hours elapsed, and no answer came.