DISAPPEARED.
"I am waiting for that, Mr. Yorke."
But for the presence of Bede Greatorex, who sat at his desk in the
front office, Roland might have retorted on Mr. Brown that he _might_
wait, for he felt in just as bad a humour as it was well possible for
Roland, or anybody else, to feel. Ceasing his covert grumbling to
Hurst, who had the convenient gift of listening and writing away by
steam at one and the same time, Roland's pen resumed its task.
Never, since Roland had joined the house of Greatorex and Greatorex,
did he remember it to have been so pressed as now, as far as Bede's
room was concerned. There was a sudden accumulation of work, and hands
were short. Little Jenner had been summoned into Yorkshire by the
illness of his mother, and Mr. Bede Greatorex had kindly said to him,
"Don't hurry back if you find her in danger." They could not borrow
help from the other side, for it happened that a clerk there was also
absent.
Thus it fell out that not only Mr. Brown had to stay in the office the
previous night until a late hour, but he detained Roland in it as
well, besides warning that gentleman that he must take twenty minutes
for his dinner at present, and no more. This was altogether an intense
grievance, considering that Roland had fully purposed to devote a
large amount of leisure time to Arthur Channing. One whole day, and
this one getting towards its close, and Roland had not set eyes on
Arthur. Since the moment when he left him at the door of the hotel in
Norfolk Street, the last evening but one, Roland had neither seen nor
heard of him. He was resenting this quite as much as the weight of
work: for when his heart was really engaged, anything like slight or
neglect wounded it to the core. Somewhat of this feeling had set in on
the first night. After startling the street and alarming the inmates
of the house, through the bell and knocker, to find that Arthur
Channing had left his hotel and not come to him, was as a very pill to
Roland. He had been kept all closely at work since, and Arthur had not
chosen to come in search of him.
Whatever impression might have been made on the mind of Bede Greatorex
by the police officer's communication, now nearly two days old, he
could not but estimate at its true value the efficiency of Mr. Brown
as a clerk. In an emergency like the present, Mr. Brown did that which
Roland was fond of talking of--put his shoulder to the wheel. Whatever
the demands of the office, Mr. Brown showed himself equal to them
almost in his own person; this, combined with his very excellent
administrative qualities, rendered him invaluable to Bede Greatorex.
In a silent, undemonstrative kind of way, Mr. Brown had also for some
months past been on the alert to watch for those mistakes, inadvertent
neglects, forgetfulness in his master, which the reader has heard
complained of. So far as he was able to do it, these were at once
silently remedied, and nothing said. Bede detected this: and he knew
that many a night when Mr. Brown stayed over hours in the office,
working diligently, it was to repair some failure of his. Once, and
once only, Bede spoke. "Why are you so late tonight, Mr. Brown?" he
asked, upon going into the office close upon ten o'clock and finding
Mr. Brown up to his elbows in work. "I'm only getting forward for the
morning, sir," was the manager's quiet answer. But Bede, though he
said no more, saw that the clerk had taken some unhappy error of his
in hand, and was toiling to remedy it and avert trouble. So that,
whatever might be Mr. Brown's private sins, Bede Greatorex could
scarcely afford to lose him.
Once more, for perhaps the five hundredth time, Bede glanced from his
desk at Mr. Brown opposite. No longer need, though, was there to
glance with any speculative view; that had been set at rest. The eyes
that had so mystified Bede Greatorex, bringing to him an uneasy,
puzzling feeling, which wholly refused to elucidate itself, tax his
memory as he would, were at length rendered clear eyes to him. He knew
where and on what occasion he had seen them: and if he had disliked
and dreaded them before, he dreaded them ten times more now.
"Ah, how do you do, Mr. Channing?"
Bede, leaving his desk, had been crossing the office to his private
room, when Hamish entered. They shook hands, and stood talking for a
few minutes, not having met since Bede returned from his continental
tour. Just as a change for the worse in Bede struck Mr. Butterby's
keen eye, so, as it appeared, did some change in Hamish Channing
strike Bede.
"Are you well?" he asked.
"As well as London and its hard work will let me be," replied Hamish,
with one of his charming smiles, which really was gay and light, in
spite of its tinge of sadness. "It is of no use to dream of green
fields and blue waves when we cannot get to them, you know."
"_That's_ rest--when you can sit down in the one and idly watch the
other," remarked Bede. "But to go scampering about for a month or two
at railroad speed, neither body nor eye getting holiday, wears out a
man worse than working on in London, Mr. Channing."
With a slow, lingering gaze at Hamish's refined face, which was
looking strangely worn, and, so to say, etherealised, Bede passed on
to his room Hamish turned to the desk of Hurst and Roland Yorke.
"How are you?" he asked of them conjointly.
"As well as cantankerous circumstances and people will let me be," was
the cross reply of Roland, without looking up from his writing.
Hamish laughed.
"Just because I wanted a little leisure just now, I've got double work
put on my shoulders," went on Roland. "You remember that time at old
Galloway's, Hamish, when Jenkins and Arthur were both away together,
throwing all the work upon me? Well, we've got a second edition of
that here."
"Who is away?" inquired Hamish.
"Little Jenner. And he is good for three of us any day in point of
getting through work. The result is, that Mr. Brown"--giving a defiant
nod to the gentleman opposite--"keeps me at it like a slave. But for
Arthur's being in London, I'd not mind some extra pressure, I'd be
glad to oblige, and do it. Not that Arthur misses me, if one may judge
by appearances," he continued in a deeply-injured tone. "I would not
be two days in a strange place without going to see after _him_."
"Have you not seen Arthur, then?" inquired Hamish.
"No, I have not seen him," retorted Roland, with emphasis. "He has
been too much taken up with you and other friends, to think of me.
Perhaps he has gone over to Gerald's interests: and _his_ theory is,
that I'm nobody worth knowing. Mother Jenkins has had her best gown on
for two days, expecting him. Live and learn--and confound it all! I'd
have backed Arthur Channing, for faith and truth, against the world."
Hamish laughed slightly: any such interlude as this in Roland's
generally easy nature, amused him always.
"You and I and Mrs. Jenkins are in the same box, old fellow, for
Arthur has not been to me."
"Oh, hasn't he?" was Roland's answer, delivered with lofty
indifference, and an angry shake of the pen, which blotted his work
all over. "It's a case of Gerald, then. Perhaps he is taking him round
to the Tower, and the waxwork, and the wild beasts--as I thought to
do."
"I expect it is rather a case of business," remarked Hamish. "You know
what Arthur is: when he has work to do, that supersedes all else.
Still I wonder he did not come round last night. We waited dinner
until half-past seven."
Roland was occupied in trying to repair the damage he had wilfully
made, and gave no answer.
"I came in now to ask you for news of him, Roland. Where is he
staying?"
"He has not called yet to see Annabel," broke in Roland. "And that I
do think shameful."
"Where is he staying?"
"Staying! Why at the place in Norfolk Street. He told you where."
"Yes," assented Hamish, "but he is not staying there. I have just come
from the hotel now."
"Who says he is not?"
"The people at the hotel."
"Oh, they say that, do they?" retorted Roland, turning his resentment
on the people in question. "They are nice ones to keep an hotel."
"They say he is not there, and has not been there."
"Then, Hamish, I can tell you that he _is_ there. Didn't I take him
down to it that night from your house, and see him safe in? Didn't he
order his missing portmanteau to be sent to the place as soon as it
turned up? They had better tell _me_ that he is not there!"
"What they say is this, Roland. That Arthur went there, but left again
the same night, never occupying his bed at all: and they can give me
no information as to where he is staying. I did not put many
questions, but came off to you, thinking you would know his
movements."
"And that is just what I don't know. Arthur has not chosen to let me
know. He is at the hotel safe enough: why, he was expecting letters
and telegrams and all kinds of things there! They have mistaken the
name and given you the wrong answer."
Hamish did not think this. He stood in silence, feeling a little
puzzled. And in that moment a faint shadow, not of evil yet, but of
something or other that was wrong, first dawned on his mind.
"I want to find him," said Hamish. "If it shall turn out that he is
really not at the hotel and they can give me no information, I shall
not know where to look for him or what to think. But for your being
busy, Roland, I would have asked you to go back with me to Norfolk
Street."
Roland looked across at Mr. Brown, the light of eagerness illumining
his face. He did not ask to go, but it was a strong silent appeal. Not
that he had any doubt on the score of Arthur; but the walking to
Norfolk Street was in prospective a very delightful interlude to the
evening's hard work. But no answering look of assent did he receive.
"We'd be back in an hour, Brown, and I'd set to work like a brick. Or
in less than that if we take a cab," briskly added Roland. "I have
some money to pay for one; I've gone about since yesterday morning
with a sovereign in my pocket, on the chance of standing treat for
some sights, in case I found the chance of going out with Arthur
Channing. Didn't Mrs. J. read me a lecture on not spending it in waste
when she handed it over!"
"If you would promise to be back within the hour, Mr. Yorke, and
really set to work with a will, you should go with Mr. Channing," was
the manager's answer, who had of course heard the whole colloquy. In
Roland's present restless temper, he was likely to retard work more
than to advance it, especially if denied the expedition to Norfolk
Street: as nobody knew better than Mr. Brown. Roland could work with a
will; and no doubt would on his return, if allowed to go. So that it
was policy to let him.
"Oh, thank you, Brown; that is generous," said he gratefully, as he
leaped off his stool and got his hat. "I'll work away till morning
light for you if it's necessary, and make no mistakes."
But Arthur was not to be found at the hotel in Norfolk Street. And the
tale told there was rather a singular one. Of course Roland, darting
in head-foremost in his impetuous way, demanded to see Mr. Arthur
Channing, and also what they meant by denying that he was staying at
it. The waiter came forward in the absence of the principal, and gave
them the few particulars (all he knew) that Hamish had not before
stayed to ask. In fact, Hamish had thought that Arthur must have taken
some prejudice against the hotel and so quitted it for another. The
following was the substance of the tale.
Mr. Arthur Channing had written from Helstonleigh to desire that a
room should be prepared for him, and any letters that might come
addressed to him be taken care of. Upon his arrival at the hotel
(which must have been when Roland left him at it) he was informed that
his room was ready, and asked if he would like to see it. Presently,
he answered, and went into the coffee-room. The man (this same one
telling the story) left him in it reading his letters, after supplying
him with writing materials, Arthur saying that when he wanted anything
he would ring. It was an exceedingly quiet hotel, not much frequented
at any time; the three or four people staying in it were out that
evening, so that Arthur was quite alone. By-and-by, the man said, he
went in again, and found the room empty. From that time they had
neither seen nor heard of Arthur.
This was the substance of the account, and it sounded somewhat
incredible. Had Arthur been like Roland Yorke for instance, liable to
dart about in random impetuosity, without the smallest concern for
others, it might have been thought that he had taken himself off in a
freak and forgotten to give notice; but Arthur was not likely to do
such a thing. Hamish stood quietly while he listened to this: Roland
had put himself upon a table, and sat there pulling fiercely at his
whiskers, his long legs dangling downwards.
"I came with him to the door my own self," burst forth Roland before
the man had well finished, as if that were a disputed point. "I
watched him come right into it. That was at eight o'clock."
"Yes, sir; it was about that time, sir, that Mr. Arthur Channing got
in," answered the waiter, who gave them his name as Binns.
"And when I came down, an hour later, you told me Mr. Arthur Channing
had gone out; you know you did," spoke Roland, who seemed altogether
out of his reckoning at the state of affairs, and wanted to blame
somebody. "You never said he had gone for good."
"Well, sir, but how was I to think he had gone for good?" mildly
inquired the waiter. "It have puzzled the house sir: we don't know
what to suppose. Towards eleven o'clock, when the gentleman did not
come in, I began to think the chambermaid must have showed him to his
room, being tired, perhaps; but she said she had not, and we went up
and found the room unoccupied. We have never heard of him at all
since, gentlemen."
The shadow looming over Hamish grew a little darker. He began to think
all this was very strange.
"The railway people were to have sent his portmanteau here," cried
Roland; who, when much put out, could not reason at all, and spoke any
thought that came uppermost.
"Yes, sir, the portmanteau came the next morning, sir. I carried it up
to his room, sir, and it is there still."
"What! unopened!" exclaimed Hamish. "I mean, has Mr. Arthur Channing
not come here to claim it?"
"No, sir; it's waiting for him against he do."
It grew serious now. Whatever abode Arthur might have removed to, he
would not fail to claim his portmanteau, as common sense told Hamish
Roland, hearing the answer, began to stare.
"Have you any idea how long he remained in, writing?" asked Hamish.
"No, sir. It might have been half-past eight or so, when I came back
into the room, and found him gone. But I don't think he had written at
all, sir, for the ink and things was on the table just as I placed
them; they didn't seem to have been used."
"Were many letters waiting for him?"
"Four or five, sir. And there was a bit of a mishap with one of them,
sir, for which I am very sorry. In taking them out of the rack to give
to him, sir, I accidentally overlooked one, and left it in, so that
Mr. Arthur Channing never had it. It's in there now."
"Be so kind as to bring it to me."
The man went for the letter, and gave it to Hamish. It was in Charles
Channing's handwriting, and bore the Marseilles post-mark. A proof
that Charley had arrived there safely: which was a bit of gladness for
Hamish.
"I suppose you will not grumble at my opening this?" he said to the
man, with a smile, as he took out his card and handed it to him. "I am
Mr. Arthur Channing's brother."
"Oh, sir! I can see that by the likeness; no need to tell it to me,"
was the answer. "It's all right, sir, I'm sure. These other three
letters have come since, sir. The big one by this morning's post, the
other two later."
The big one, as the man called it, a thick, official-looking, blue
envelope, was in Mr. Galloway's handwriting. Roland knew the proctor's
seal too well. That one Hamish did not feel at liberty to open, but
the others he did, and thought the circumstances fully justified it.
Running his eyes over Charles's first, he found it had been written on
board, as the steamer was nearing Marseilles. It stated that he was
feeling very much better for the voyage, and thought of staying quite
a week in Paris as he came through it. So far, _that_ was good news;
and now Hamish opened the other two.
Each of them, dated that morning, proved to be from a separate firm of
solicitors in London and contained a few brief words of inquiry why
Mr. Arthur Channing had not kept the appointment with them on the
previous day.
Was Arthur _lost_, then? Hamish felt startled to tremor. As to poor
Roland, he could only stare in helpless wonder, and openly lament that
he had been such a wicked jackanapes as to attribute unkindness to
Arthur.
"When I knew in my heart he was the best and truest man, the bravest
gentleman the world ever produced, Hamish. Oh! I am a nice one."
Remaining at the hotel would not help them, for the waiter could tell
no more than he had told. Hamish pointed to his address on the card
already given, and they walked away up Norfolk Street in silence.
Roland broke it as they turned into the Strand, his low voice taking a
tone of dread.
"I say, Hamish! Arthur had a lot of money about him."
"A lot of money!" repeated Hamish.
"He had. He brought it up from old Galloway. You--you--don't think he
could have been murdered for it?"
"Hush, Roland!"
"Oh, well--But the roughs would not mind doing such a thing at Port
Natal."