De Craye detained him in the laboratory, first over the China cups and saucers, and then with the latest of London—­tales of youngest Cupid upon subterranean adventures, having high titles to light him.  Willoughby liked the tale thus illuminated, for without the title there was no special savour in such affairs, and it pulled down his betters in rank.  He was of a morality to reprobate the erring dame while he enjoyed the incidents.  He could not help interrupting De Craye to point at Vernon through the window, striding this way and that, evidently on the hunt for young Crossjay.  “No one here knows how to manage the boy except myself But go on, Horace,” he said, checking his contemptuous laugh; and Vernon did look ridiculous, out there half-drenched already in a white rain, again shuffled off by the little rascal.  It seemed that he was determined to have his runaway:  he struck up the avenue at full pedestrian racing pace.

“A man looks a fool cutting after a cricket-ball; but, putting on steam in a storm of rain to catch a young villain out of sight, beats anything I’ve witnessed,” Willoughby resumed, in his amusement.

“Aiha!” said De Craye, waving a hand to accompany the melodious accent, “there are things to beat that for fun.”

He had smoked in the laboratory, so Willoughby directed a servant to transfer the porcelain service to one of the sitting-rooms for Clara’s inspection of it.

“You’re a bold man,” De Craye remarked.  “The luck may be with you, though.  I wouldn’t handle the fragile treasure for a trifle.”

“I believe in my luck,” said Willoughby.

Clara was now sought for.  The lord of the house desired her presence impatiently, and had to wait.  She was in none of the lower rooms.  Barclay, her maid, upon interrogation, declared she was in none of the upper.  Willoughby turned sharp on De Craye:  he was there.

The ladies Eleanor and Isabel and Miss Dale were consulted.  They had nothing to say about Clara’s movements, more than that they could not understand her exceeding restlessness.  The idea of her being out of doors grew serious; heaven was black, hard thunder rolled, and lightning flushed the battering rain.  Men bearing umbrellas, shawls, and cloaks were dispatched on a circuit of the park.  De Craye said:  “I’ll be one.”

“No,” cried Willoughby, starting to interrupt him, “I can’t allow it.”

“I’ve the scent of a hound, Willoughby; I’ll soon be on the track.”

“My dear Horace, I won’t let you go.”

“Adieu, dear boy! and if the lady’s discoverable, I’m the one to find her.”

He stepped to the umbrella-stand.  There was then a general question whether Clara had taken her umbrella.  Barclay said she had.  The fact indicated a wider stroll than round inside the park:  Crossjay was likewise absent.  De Craye nodded to himself.

Willoughby struck a rattling blow on the barometer.