And
then--shall I admit it?--I was lonely, too, sometimes, as I suppose
every bachelor must be; and I welcomed a companion.
* * * * *
It was Monday, the fourteenth day of April, and we had just opened the
office, when a clerk hurried in with a message for Mr. Royce.
"There's a man out here who wants to see you at once, sir," he said.
"He says his name's Thompson, and that he's Miss Frances Holladay's
butler."
Our junior half-started from his chair in his excitement; then he
controlled himself, and sank back into it again.
"Show him in," he said, and sat with his eyes on the door, haggard in
appearance, pitiful in his eagerness. Not until that moment had I
noticed how the past week had aged him and worn him down--his work, of
course, might account for part of it, but not for all. He seemed
almost ill.
The door opened in a moment, and a gray-haired man of about sixty
entered. He was fairly gasping for breath, and plainly laboring under
strong emotion.
"Well, Thompson," demanded Mr. Royce, "what's the trouble now?"
"Trouble enough, sir!" cried the other. "My mistress has been made
away with, sir! She left town just ten days ago for Belair, where we
were all waiting for her, and nobody has set eyes on her since, sir!"
CHAPTER X
An Astonishing Disappearance
Mr.
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