The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM(243)

                “Light the candles now,” said Loveday, rising from her seat beside the fire; “draw down the blinds and shut out that dreary autumn scene, it sets me shivering!”

                It might well do so. The black clouds had fulfilled their threat, and rain was now dashing in torrents against the panes. A tall sycamore, immediately outside the window, creaked and groaned dismally in response to the wind that came whistling round the corner of the house, and between the swaying and all but leafless elms Loveday could catch a glimpse of the grey, winding trout stream, swollen now to its limits and threatening to overflow its banks.

                Dinner that night was in keeping with the gloom that overhung the house within and without; although the telegram from Paris had seemed to let in a ray of hope, Mr. Golding was evidently afraid to put much trust in it.

                “As Mrs. Greenhow says, ‘we have had so many disappointments,’” he said sadly, as he took his place at table. “So many false clues—false scents started. Ramsay has at once put himself in communication with the police at Boulogne and Calais, as well as at Dover and Folkestone. We can only pray that something may come of it!”

                “And dear Lord Guilleroy,” chimed in Mrs. Greenhow, in her soft, purring voice, “has started for Paris immediately. The young man has such a vast amount of energy, and thinks he can do the work of the police better than they can do it for themselves.”

                “That’s hardly a fair way of putting it, Clare,” interrupted Mr. Golding irritably; “he is working heart and soul with the police, and thinks it advisable that some one representing me should be in Paris, in case an emergency should arise; also he wants himself to question Dulau respecting my daughter’s sudden appearance and disappearance in the Paris streets. Guilleroy,” here he turned to Loveday, “is devotedly attached to my daughter, and—why, Dryad, what’s the matter, old man? down, down! Don’t growl and whine in that miserable fashion.”



                             He had broken off to address these words to the Newfoundland, who, until that moment, had been comfortably stretched on the hearth-rug before the fire, but who now had suddenly started to his feet with ears erect, and given a prolonged growl, that ended in something akin to a whine.

                “It may be a fox trotting past the window,” said Mrs. Greenhow, whipping at the dog with her lace handkerchief. But Dryad was not to be so easily subdued. With his nose to the ground now he was sniffing uneasily at and around the heavy curtains that half draped the long French windows of the room.

                “Something has evidently disturbed him. Why not let him out into the garden?” said Loveday. And Mr. Golding, with a “Hey, Dryad, go find!” unfastened the window and let the dog out into the windy darkness.

                Dinner was a short meal that night. It was easy to see that it was only by a strong effort of will that Mr. Golding kept his place at table, and made even a pretence of eating.

                At the close of the meal Loveday asked for a quiet corner, in which to write some business letters, and was shown into the library by Mr. Golding.

                “You’ll find all you require here, I think,” he said, with something of a sigh, as he placed a chair for her at a lady’s davenport. “This was René’s favourite corner, and here are the last flowers she gathered—dead, all dead, but I will not have them touched!” He broke off abruptly, set down the vase of dead asters which he had taken in his hand, and quitted the room, leaving Loveday to the use of René’s pen, ink, paper, and blotting-pad.

                Loveday soon became absorbed in her business letters. Time flew swiftly, and it was not until a clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour—ten o’clock—that she gave a thought as to what might be the hour for retiring at the Hall.