Part 5 (2/2)
”Of course,” mournfully.
”He would have started in pursuit, had they not convinced him of the folly of such an undertaking.”
”Folly, indeed, for him.”
”And now, Miss Wardour, we have arrived at the end of certainty, and to enter into the field of conjecture is useless. The time may come when some of us may be of actual service to this most unhappy friend of yours. I confess that I wait with some curiosity the movements of her parents in the matter.”
”They will take her from him, at once. They will buy him off; compel him--anything to get her back.”
”Perhaps; but--she may resist them. Think of that letter.”
”True. Ah me! I can't think. Doctor Heath, I have kept you here starving. I had forgotten that dinner ever was, or could be. You shall dine with Aunt Honor and myself; and, for the present, we will not speak of poor Sybil's flight to her. She would run the entire gamut of speculation, for she is very much given to 'seeing through things,' and I can't bear to talk too much on this subject. I should get angry, and nervous, and altogether unpleasant. I say, 'you will stay;' _will_ you stay?”
He has never before been invited to dine at Wardour Place, except when the dinner has been a formal one, and the guests numerous; but he accepts this invitation to dine _en famille_, quite nonchalantly, and as a thing of course.
So he dines at Wardour Place, and talks with Aunt Honor about the robbery, and listens to her description of the splendid Wardour diamonds, and looks at Constance, and thinks his own thoughts.
[Ill.u.s.tration: So he dines at Wardour Place.]
After dinner Aunt Honor occupies herself with the evening paper; and, after a while, Constance and Doctor Heath pa.s.s out through the low, broad French window, and stand on the balcony. The light from within falls upon them and that portion of the balcony where they stand. There is a young moon, too; and just beyond is a monster oak, that spreads its great branches out, and out, until they rustle, and sway above the lower half of the long balcony, and rap and patter against the stone walls.
”Have you thought,” asks Constance, as she leans lightly against the iron railing, ”that to-morrow is Sunday, and that Mr. Lamotte, unless he has already returned, can not reach home until Monday?”
”It has occurred to me.”
”And poor Sybil! Where will she be by then?”
”Miss Wardour! What disinterestedness! I thought you were thinking of your detective.”
”My detective! Why, what a lot of stupid people! He might as well not come at all. Why didn't you tell me to telegraph at once?”
”Because Mr. Lamotte was coming. I depended upon him.”
”And he has made a blunder.”
”Not necessarily.”
”Why?”
”He may have seen an officer immediately, and the man may be now on the way, by the night train. He will be sure to be here before Monday, or he is no detective. They depend very little on the regular trains.”
”Oh; I am enlightened! All the same, I shall never see my diamonds more.”
”You don't seem much troubled.”
”Pride, all pride! I'm heart broken.”
”You are a most _nonchalant_ young lady.”
<script>