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Mrs. Keeler was bending over a kettle on the stove, from which the aroma of wild thimble-berries came in fragrant puffs.,

"Now, sir," continued Captain Acton, "it is not the intention of Sir William Lawrence or myself to suffer my daughter to be kidnapped[Pg 226] by an act of treachery which I forbear to say more about in the presence of my honourable and gallant old friend, Admiral Lawrence.",

Billy was standing up now, his perplexed face turned questioningly on his chums.,

Captain Acton easily perceived what was happening, and might as easily have guessed what was to come. The Admiral was as perceptive as his friend, and as reserved.

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But here he found another little hope; some squalls of wet, one very heavy, had set the kennels running shortly after he had met Mr Greyquill, and if that letter had lain exposed to those three or four deluges, it not only stood to be changed into a mere rag to the eye which none would dream of even glancing at, but the writing must have been washed out to a degree to render the sense of the letter unintelligible. He considered that it was not above two or three hours when that letter was in his pocket, and that it must have fallen somewhere betwixt his father's house and the Minorca in that time, for he had taken the same road to and fro. He reflected that that road was but little used compared with the lane that led to the bridge where the Actons' carriage had stopped. Understanding as a sailor the preciousness of time, and conceiving that if the letter had by some strange mischance fallen during his walk unobserved by him it might still rest in the spot where it had dropped, insomuch that chance—for the fellow was a gambler at heart—might concede him yet an hour, even two hours, in which to find it, he put on his hat and marched out of[Pg 153] the house, just saying to his father in the window that he had an appointment and should miss it if he didn't hasten, and then stepped out, casting as he went to right and left of his path eyes as piercingly scrutinising as those which the madman darts when he seeks for the philosopher's stone.,

So, then, as she sat at table she almost looked the same beautiful Lucy Acton who had left her house early one morning for[Pg 369] a walk in which she had met the hunchback Paul and read a letter he gave her. The old rich colour was indeed lacking; no charm of hat, no grace of coiffure, no elegance of costume could immediately qualify or dispel the languor of fatigue in the eyes, the delicate shadow pencilled by worry and an enormous mental strain under the eyes, and a general expression in movements of silence or repose, of anxiety, pain, and another quality which you might have seen was present without being able to give it a name.,

But Mrs. Wilson was not her old cheerful self; far from it. Wilson realized this fact as soon as he opened the door. She raised stern eyes to her husband as he entered.,

"All right; that's settled. But listen, now, every one of you. He's gotta go of his own accord. We're not goin' to be disobedient in any way. Fer a time we'll eat out'a his hand. Now wait—" as a groan of protest went up—"let me finish afore you get the high-jumps, you fellers. At the end of two er three weeks somethin' is goin' to happen to Mr. Johnston. I'm not goin' to say what that somethin' is right now, but you'll all know soon enough. And if after it happens he's got nerve enough to come back here I miss my guess, that's all."