It is possible to conceive of a more hopeful task than hunting up and
down a large French town for tidings of a strolling player who, for one
night only, played the ghost in _Hamlet_ twenty years ago. But Roger,
as, early in the year, he stepped ashore at Boulogne with Armstrong at
his side, felt sanguine and of good cheer.
His recovery had been slow, and not without interruption. As soon as he
could be moved he had returned to Maxfield, only to find Rosalind still
away, and his guardian obdurate to any suggestion for expediting her
return.
As to the proposed journey to Boulogne, the gallant captain looked upon
that as a symptom of serious mental exhaustion on the part of the
invalid. Roger, however, was in a mood impervious to argument.
When the time actually came, the captain surprised every one by giving
in more readily than any one had expected. The truth was, Mr Ratman,
though lost to sight, contrived to make himself very dear to his
debtor's memory, and already a legal document had reached Maxfield
demanding the payment in full of a certain bill within a certain date on
pain of certain consequences. And Captain Oliphant felt it would be
distinctly convenient, for a while, to be relieved of the presence both
of his co-trustee and his ward. He felt himself quite competent to deal
with the trust moneys which were shortly about to come in without
assistance.
When, therefore, Roger with some hesitation returned to the charge, he
said, somewhat severely--
"You are old enough to decide for yourself, my boy. You know my view of
the matter. I conclude you are not going alone?"
"No; Armstrong is coming."
"Naturally. I wish you joy. On your return I shall be happy to resume
my responsibility for your welfare. I cannot profess to feel oppressed
by it in your absence."
This was enough. True, the captain contrived to get in a parting shot
by announcing that Rosalind was likely to return shortly to Maxfield.
But even that did not suffice to change the lad's purpose.
"Don't be very long away," said Jill to Mr Armstrong. "You are always
going and leaving us. Rosalind will be very, very sorry to find you are
away. She likes you--she told me so; but she doesn't like you half as
much as I do."
The tutor flushed uncomfortably.
"Oh," said Tom, "you're always spoons on somebody, Jill. I heard you
tell that Duke chap you liked him better than anybody in the world."
"O Tom! how dare you tell such a wicked falsehood? I told him I liked
him _nearly_ as much as Mr Armstrong, but not quite. Really I did, Mr
Armstrong."
"I am very jealous of the Duke," said Mr Armstrong gravely.
Once across the Channel, Roger's spirits rose. He had a presentiment he
was on the right track. Like a knight of old, set down to a desperate
task, the fighting blood rose joyously within him. Whatever it cost,
whoever deserted him, whoever opposed him, he would find his brother,
and give to him his own.
For days they went hither and thither, inquiring at cafes, theatres,
cabarets, custom-houses, police stations, and even cemeteries, without
success. Most of the persons accosted laughed and shrugged their
shoulders to be asked if they remembered the visit of strolling players
to the town as far back as twenty years. Others bridled up
suspiciously, as if the question were a preliminary to their detection
in some old evil deed. Others utterly failed to comprehend the
question; and a few pityingly tapped their own foreheads, and shook
their heads at the two half-witted English holiday-makers. But no one
could tell a word about Rogers.
A fortnight passed, and the thoughts of both, dispirited and worn,
turned homeward. Rosalind, a letter had informed them, was back at
Maxfield.
Of the two, perhaps Mr Armstrong displayed less disposition to own
himself beaten. He had worked like a horse all the time. Roger had
been compelled to own that without him his mission would have been a
feeble farce. Not a stone did the dogged tutor leave unturned. Not a
difficulty did he shirk. Not a man or woman, however forbidding, did he
hesitate to tackle, who in the remotest degree might be suspected of
being likely to give information. Now that it came to giving in, he
hung back, reluctant to dip his colours.
"To-day's Thursday," said he. "Let's give ourselves till Saturday. If
nothing turns up by then, I am your man to slink home."
Roger, a little ashamed to find the first last and the last first in the
race after all, readily assented. And the two worked unflagging for two
days longer.
Friday evening came, and the two sat dismally down to _table d'hote_
with defeat staring them in the face. They said very little, but each
knew the mortification in the other's breast.