“He thinks it best not to spread it abroad. I daresay he may be right. I must be guided by him.”

He took a turn about the room, and presently said with a little reserve: “I am aware that it is not for me to criticize. But what reason can he have for wishing to keep Perry’s disappearance secret? You tell me he has gone to Bow Street: that would be well done indeed—if he may be believed. You are to do nothing, to set no inquiries on foot: it is all to be left to him. Does he know that I am in this secret?”

“Yes,” she said. “Certainly he knows.”

He looked at her intently. “Ah, I understand! I am suspect.”

“Not by me,” she answered.

“No,” he said with a slight smile, “but by him. If anything has happened to Perry—which God forbid!—Worth will do his utmost to lay it at my door. The very fact of my having recommended Tyler to Perry, though I did it to avert this very event, gives him a weapon.”

“You did it to avert—you placed him with Perry to guard him?”

“Yes, to guard him. I have been uneasy these many weeks. Judith, who put the man Hinkson in Perry’s service?”

“Hinkson! Why, no one! Perry stood in need of a groom; Hinkson applied for the post. I know nothing more than that, cousin.”

“Nor I, but I have long believed him to be in Worth’s pay.”

“What reason have you for saying such a thing? I cannot credit it!”

“The man was never a groom in his life. There is part of my reason for you. For the rest, can you tell me why Perry’s groom should be seen going into Worth’s house? I have seen that.”

She was startled, but a moment’s reflection caused her to reply with a good deal of calm sense: “When I have had occasion to send a message to Lord Worth, Hinkson has very often been charged with it. I cannot allow his having been seen by you to be a reason for supposing him in Worth’s pay.”

“Where was Hinkson yesterday when Perry set out for Worthing?”

“He was in some tavern—I cannot tell you which. He was drunk.”

“Or he wished it to be thought that he was drunk. One more question, and I have done. Where was Lord Worth that night?”

“At the Pavilion,” she answered at once. “I was—I was taken faint there, and he brought me home.”

“He was there throughout the evening?”

“No,” she said slowly, “he came late.”

He faced her, frowning. “Judith, I have no proof, nor do I wish to make accusations which may well be unfounded, but I tell you frankly I have a profound conviction that Worth knows more of this affair than he has disclosed.”

She got up with a hasty movement. “Oh, I cannot bear it!” she cried. “Is it not enough that I should be almost distraught with anxiety for Perry? Must I also be tortured by such suspicions as these? I would not listen to Worth when he warned me against you, and I will not listen to you! Please leave me! I am in no case to talk to you, or anyone.”

“Forgive me!” he said. “I should not have troubled you with my suspicions. Forget what I have said. I will do everything that lies in my power to aid you in this search. To see you in such distress—” He broke off, and caught her hand in his, holding it very tightly. “If I could have spared you this anxiety! It is a damnable business!” He spoke with real feeling; both air and countenance showed him to be strongly moved. He pressed her hand to his lips for an instant, and with a last, eloquent look went quickly out of the room.

He left her wretched indeed. She knew not what to believe, nor whom to trust, and as the morning wore on, and no news of Peregrine came, her spirits grew more and more oppressed, until she found herself even looking on Mrs. Scattergood with doubt. Mrs. Scattergood did what she could to induce her to walk out with her and take the air, but Judith felt herself quite unequal to it, and begged with so much earnestness to be left in solitude, that the good lady judged it wisest to humour her, and set off alone to try and find some new publication upon the shelves of the circulating library sufficient enthralling to distract even the most overwrought mind.

She had not been gone above ten minutes when Sir Geoffrey Fairford’s card was brought up to Miss Taverner’s room, where she was laid down to rest. Her feelings, on reading it, were all of thankfulness, for on Sir Geoffrey’s integrity at least she could place absolute dependence. She got up, and with trembling fingers tidied her hair, and adjusted her dress. Within five minutes she was in the drawing-room, clasping both Sir Geoffrey’s hands with a look of relief so heartfelt, that the circumstance of their being but barely acquainted was forgotten, and Sir Geoffrey, drawing her to the sofa, obliged her to sit down, and commanded her, as though she had been his own daughter, to put him in possession of all the facts.

He was on his way to London, to seek out Lord Worth, but he would not go without first visiting Judith, and learning from her whether any tidings of Peregrine had been received. She was grateful indeed. If he were to make it his business to join in the search for Peregrine she might be assured of everything possible being done. She told him what she knew as collectedly as she could, and had the comfort of knowing that, although he considered the case to be extraordinary, he did not feel it to be desperate. His judgment was calm, his opinions so much those of a man of sense and experience, that he had to be attended to. He was able to soothe the more violent of her fears, and when he presently went away, he left her tolerably composed, and even hopeful of a happy issue.

A visit from Captain Audley helped still further to restore her to some degree of tranquillity. He came in shortly after Mrs. Scattergood’s return, and bore Miss Taverner off for a drive. She at first declined it, but allowed herself in the end to be persuaded.

“Miss Taverner,” he said, “you are for moping indoors, and indulging your fancy in every flight of the most horrid imagination! Confess, you have been picturing dungeons, oubliettes, ambushes—in a word, all the terrors that lurk between the pages of the best romances! But it will not do: we live in the nineteenth century, and instead of receiving demands for a fabulous ransom, you are a great deal more likely to find that Perry has posted off to buy some horse which he has been informed is so perfect in all its paces that it would be a shocking thing to miss the chance of striking a bargain. Ten to one, the explanation will be something very like that, and when you scold him for giving you such a fright he will be mightily indignant, talk of the letter he sent you through the post, and discover it in the pocket of his driving-cloak.”

“Ah, if I could only think so!” she sighed.

“You will find that it is so, I assure you. Meanwhile, I have a strict charge laid on me not to allow you to fret. You are to regard me, if you please, as Worth’s proxy, and in that character I command you, Miss Taverner, to put on your driving-habit, and come with me. Look out the window, and tell me if you can be ungrateful enough to refuse!”

She did look out, and smiled faintly to see Worth’s team of greys being led up and down by a groom. “At any other time I should be tempted,” she said. “But to-day—”

“Miss Taverner, do you dare to oppose my brother in this fashion?” he demanded. “I cannot credit it!”

Mrs. Scattergood added her persuasions to his. Miss Taverner submitted, and was soon sitting on the box-seat of the curricle, the reins in her capable hands. Captain Audley, exerting himself to divert her, was by turns audacious, droll, witty, sensible, but none of his sallies drew so animated a look nor so unforced a smile from her as his offer, when the curricle drew up on Marine Parade again, to escort her to London if no news of Peregrine was heard within the week.

“I don’t doubt we shall have news,” he said, “but if we do not by Thursday next, I will engage to go with you and Maria to town, and to conduct you to Bow Street myself.”

“Oh, if you would!” she cried. “To be staying here, unable to do anything to the purpose, ignorant of the steps Lord Worth is taking—it is not to be borne!”

“You have my promise,” he said. “But until then try to do as Worth bade you. Be patient, do not set tongues wagging, and do not imagine the worst!”

He handed her down from the curricle, saw her into the house, and nodded to the groom to get up on the box-seat. His gaiety had fallen from him when the door was closed behind Miss Taverner. As he was driven back to the Steyne he was frowning, in a way that induced the groom to suppose that his arm must be causing him a good deal of pain.

He dined alone, but went out afterwards to stroll down the Steyne. Nine o’clock was a fashionable hour of promenade there, and he had not gone far before he had met half a dozen people he knew. Several inquiries were made concerning Worth’s whereabouts, but the news of Peregrine’s disappearance did not seem to have got about, and Worth’s having gone up to London on a matter of business was not much wondered at. Captain Audley had just repeated this explanation of his brother’s absence for the fifth time, when he saw Mr. Bernard Taverner walking towards him, evidently with the intention of accosting him. He made his bow to the two ladies who were regretting Worth’s departure, and moved on to meet Mr. Taverner.

“I am glad to have this chance of speaking with you,” Bernard Taverner said. “I do not like to be for ever calling in Marine Parade for tidings. Has anything been heard of my cousin?”

“I do not know what my brother may have heard,” replied the Captain. “I have heard nothing.”

Mr. Taverner fell into step beside him, and said with an air of grave reflection: “Your brother hopes to get news of him in London, I collect. Is there any reason to suppose that Peregrine should have gone there?”