“Brancaster?” said Beatrix quickly, her interest immediately roused. “Did Lord Cleeve know—did he give you any news of Gareth?”

“No, no, nothing like that! But from what he said it seems Brancaster is down at Brighton. He spoke of having dined with him in town the day he came up from Brancaster Park. He went off to join the Regent the next morning. What struck me as odd was that, by what I was able to make out, he must have left Brancaster the day after Gary arrived there. That is, if Gary held by his intention of going first to the Rydes. Said he meant to spend a couple of days with them, didn’t he?”

“Yes, certainly he did, and Gary would never break an engagement of that nature! Then Gary cannot be at Brancaster! Warren, it must surely mean—though I find it hard to credit it!—that Lady Hester rejected him!”

“Looks like it,” agreed Warren. “Brancaster’s a ramshackle fellow, but he wouldn’t go off to Brighton if he had Gary staying with him in Cambridgeshire. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Thankful!”she declared. Her brow creased. “Yes, but—Warren, if Gary left Brancaster over a fortnight ago, what can have become of him?”

“Lord, I don’t know! Daresay he went on to visit some of his friends. To get back to what I was saying to you about young Kendal—”

“He would not have done so without writing to me! He must have known how anxious I should be!”

“Anxious! Why should you be anxious? Gary ain’t a schoolboy, my dear! I own it ain’t like him to go off without telling anyone where he was bound for, or how long he meant to be away—but for anything we know he may have sent word to Berkeley Square.”

“I shall call there tomorrow morning, and ask Sheen whether he has had any news of his master,” said Beatrix in a determined voice.

“No harm in doing that, but mind, now, Trixie!—if he hasn’t written to Sheen, Gary won’t thank you for kicking up a dust, so take care what you say to Sheen! Well, about young Kendal! I invited him to come and take his pot-luck with us tomorrow. Jack’s boy, you know!”

She was frowning over the mystery of her brother’s continued absence from town, but these words successfully diverted her mind. “Invited him to dine with us tomorrow?” she exclaimed. “Good gracious, Warren, could you not have invited him to White’s? Pray, how, at such short notice, am I to arrange a suitable party for his entertainment, with London so thin of company? And Leigh gone off to stay with the Maresfields, too!”

“Leigh? Lord, Trixie, Kendal ain’t a scrubby schoolboy! He’s four or five-and-twenty, and has seen eight years’ service besides! What should he have to say to a whipper-snapper like Leigh? As for company, you need not put yourself about, for I told him he would meet none but ourselves.”

“Oh, very well!” she said. “I must say, though, that I should think he would be heartily bored!”

“Nonsense! He will be mighty glad to sit down to one of your dinners, my love. He has been putting up at an hotel these past few weeks, and I’ll be bound he’ll welcome a change from chops and steaks. He told me that he’s been kept kicking his heels in town by those fellows at the Horse Guards, while the military doctors made up their minds whether he was fit to go back to his duties or not. Got a ball in his shoulder, and was sent home on sick furlough some months ago. He’s a Light Bob: 43rd Regiment.”

The vexed look vanished from her face. It was tiresome to be obliged to entertain a stranger at this season, when she was on the point of shutting up the London house for a couple of months, but no officer for the Peninsula need doubt his welcome in Mount Street. “Oh, was he in Spain? I wonder it he ever met Arthur? Of course he must dine with us!” she said cordially.

Nothing could have been kinder than her greeting, when Captain Kendal was ushered into her drawing-room on the following evening; but what she had learnt at Sir Gareth’s house that morning had destroyed all desire to entertain even a Peninsular veteran who might have been acquainted with her brother Arthur.

Sheen had received no commands from his master, since Trotton, more than a fortnight ago, had delivered a message that Sir Gareth expected to be at home again on the following evening. He had not come, and Trotton had disclosed that when he had parted from him, Sir Gareth had said that he might, perhaps, visit my Lord and the Lady Stowmarket, which was no doubt what he had done.

Two pieces of disquieting intelligence were conveyed to Mrs. Wetherby in this speech. The first was that Sir Gareth should have sent Trotton home; the second, that he should have said he was going to stay with the Stowmarkets. It was very unlike him to prefer post-chaise travel to driving his own horses; and none knew better than he that the Stowmarkets were away from home. There was some mystery attached to his movements, and the more Beatrix thought about it the uneasier did she become. She betrayed nothing to Sheen, however, merely desiring him to tell Trotton, when he should see him, that she wished him to wait on her in Mount Street.

Nor would anyone have guessed, watching her as she sat chatting to Captain Kendal, that at least half her mind was occupied in turning over and over the problem of Sir Gareth’s disappearance.

Captain Kendal was a rather stocky young man, with sandy hair and brows, a square, purposeful countenance, and a pair of very direct blue eyes. His varied career—for he had seen service in South America, before joining Sir John Moore’s expedition to Spain—had given him an assurance which made him appear older than his twenty-four years; and his manner, which, although perfectly unassuming, was very decided, indicated that he was accustomed to command. His private fortune was small, but there seemed to be little doubt that he would succeed in his profession. Young as he was, when he had been wounded he had been Acting Brigade-Major. He was not very talkative, but this seemed to arise from a natural taciturnity rather than from shyness; and from having been with the army abroad ever since he had left school, he had none of the social graces that characterized the young man of fashion. He had not been acquainted with Major Ludlow, but in spite of this Beatrix liked him. The only fault she had to find with him was that his mind was cast in rather too serious a mould for her taste.

It was not easy to draw him out on his personal affairs, but he was ready enough to talk of military matters, or of any interesting things he had seen on his travels. Beatrix, enquiring about billeting arrangements in Spain, won far more from him than Warren, asking questions about his family, or his ambitions.

“It’s several years since I had the pleasure of meeting your mother,” said Warren. “I hope she’s well?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” responded Captain Kendal. “Does she still live in Northamptonshire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And—now let me see! How many brothers is it that you have?”

“Only one, sir.”

“Only one, eh? But you have several sisters, I fancy.”

“I have three sisters.”

“Three, is it?” said Warren, persevering. “And your brother—he was married not so long ago, wasn’t he?”

“Two years ago,” said Captain Kendal.

“Is it as much as that? I remember seeing the notice of it. Well, well! I suppose he must have been a schoolboy when I saw him last. I was used frequently to visit your father, you know, and was once pretty familiar with your part of the country. Lately, I don’t know how it may be, but I have very seldom been in Northamptonshire. I daresay, however, that we have several acquaintances in common The Birchingtons, for instance, and Sir Harry Bramber?” Captain Kendal bowed. “Yes, I was sure you must know them. Yes, I’ll tell you who is in town, who is quite a near neighbour of yours! Old Summercourt! But I daresay you knew that.”

“I didn’t know it, sir. I am, of course, acquainted with General Summercourt.”

“Friend of my father’s,” said Warren. “I met him today, at White’s. Breaking up a trifle, I thought. Not like himself. But I only had a couple of words or so with him: he was in the devil of a hurry—only dropped into the club to see if there were any letters for him. Said he couldn’t stay, because he must call at Bow Street. Seemed an odd start to me. Not getting to be a trifle queer in his attic, is he?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Captain Kendal, staring rather fixedly at him. “Bow Street,did you say?”

“Yes: I couldn’t help wondering what took him there. He was looking a trifle hagged, too. Nothing wrong, is there?”

“To my knowledge, nothing whatsoever,” replied Captain Kendal, a crease between his brows.

Warren began to talk of something else, but after a few minutes the Captain said abruptly: “I beg pardon, sir, but can you furnish me with General Summercourt’s direction?”

“I didn’t ask where he was staying, but I fancy he usually puts up at Grillon’s when he’s in town,” replied Warren, looking an enquiry.

The Captain coloured slightly. “Thank you. If he is in some trouble—I am pretty well acquainted with him—it would be civil to call upon him!”

Nothing more was said on the subject, but Beatrix received the impression that the casual piece of information let fall by her husband had arrested Captain Kendal’s attention more than had anything else that had been said to him.

Not long after dinner, when the gentlemen had joined Beatrix in the drawing-room, the butler came in, and, after hesitating for a moment, went to where his master was sitting, and bent to say, in an apologetic and lowered tone: “I beg your pardon, sir, but Sir Gareth’s head groom is below. I said you was engaged, but he seems very anxious to speak to you.”

The words were intended only for Mr. Wetherby’s ears, but Beatrix’s hearing was sharp, and she heard them. She broke off in the middle of what she was saying to her guest, and demanded: “Did you say Sir Gareth’s head groom? I will come at once.” She nodded to her husband, and got up. “I left a message in Berkeley Square that I wished Trotton to come here. Captain Kendal will excuse me, I am sure, if I run away for a few minutes.”

“I beg pardon, ma’am, but it is the master Trotton has come to see,” interposed the butler, catching Mr. Wetherby’s eye, and exchanging with him a meaning look.

“Nonsense! It is I who want to see Trotton, not your master!” said Beatrix, not blind to this by-play.

“Stay where you are, my dear,” said Warren, going to the door. “I’ll find out what Trotton wants. There’s no occasion for you to put yourself out.”

She was vexed, but to engage in a dispute with him in the presence of a guest did not suit her notions of propriety. She resumed her seat, and said, with rather a forced smile: “Pray forgive us! The thing is that I am in some anxiety about my brother, whose groom it is who has just come here.”

“I am excessively sorry!” he said. “I collect he is ill? Would you like me to go away? You must be wishing me at the devil!”

“Indeed I am not! I beg you won’t think of running away! My brother is not ill—at least, I don’t think so.” She stopped, and then said, with a little laugh: “It is very likely nothing at all, and I am refining too much upon the event. The fact is that my brother went into the country on a visit more than a fortnight ago, and although his servants were in the expectation of his returning four days later, he didn’t return, or send any word, so that I cannot help indulging a great many foolish fancies. But you were telling me about the fiestas in Madrid: do continue! How pretty the candles set on the window-sills must have looked! Were you quartered in the town, Captain Kendal?”

He answered her, and she led him on to describe such features of the Spanish scene as he had thought memorable, an expression on her face of absorbed interest, suitable comments rising mechanically to her lips, and her mind almost wholly divorced from anything he was saying.

The circumstance of Trotton’s asking particularly to speak with Warren rather than with herself was not reassuring; a chilling fear that some dreadful news was presently to be broken gently to her by her husband began to creep into her heart; and only her good breeding kept her from jumping up, and following Warren.

He was gone for what seemed to her to be an ominously long time, and when he at last came back into the room he was wearing the expression of a man who did not wish his wife to suspect that anything was wrong. It was too much; she exclaimed sharply: “What is it? Has some accident befallen Gary?”