“Well,” said Mr. Mergleson, putting his hands where the tails of his short jacket would have been if it hadn’t been short, and looking extraordinarily like a parrot in its more thoughtful moods, “to tell you the truth, Mr. Darling, I’ve ’ad a dream about ’im—and it worries me. I got a sort of ideer of ’im as being in one of them secret passages. ’Iding away. There was a guest, well, I say it with all respec’ but _anyone_ might ’ave ’id from ’im.... S’morning soon as the week-end ’ad cleared up and gone ’ome, me and Thomas went through them passages as well as we could. Not a trace of ’im. But I still got that ideer. ’E was a wriggling, climbing,—enterprising sort of boy.” “I’ve checked ’im for it once or twice,” said Mr. Darling with the red light of fierce memories gleaming for a moment in his eyes. “’E might even,” said Mr. Mergleson, “well, very likely ’ave got ’imself jammed in one of them secret passages....” “Jammed,” repeated Mr. Darling. “Well—got ’imself somewhere where ’e can’t get out. I’ve ’eard tell there’s walled-up dungeons.” “They say,” said Mr. Darling, “there’s underground passages to the Abbey ruins—three good mile away.” “Orkward,” said Mr. Mergleson.... “Drat ’is eyes!” said Mr. Darling, scratching his head. “What does ’e mean by it?” “We can’t leave ’im there,” said Mr. Mergleson. “I knowed a young devil once what crawled up a culvert,” said Mr. Darling. “’Is father ’ad to dig ’im out like a fox.... Lord! ’ow ’e walloped ’im for it.” “Mistake to ’ave a boy in so young,” said Mr. Mergleson. “It’s all very awkward,” said Mr. Darling, surveying every aspect of the case. “You see—. ’Is mother sets a most estrordinary value on ’im. Most estrordinary.” “I don’t know whether she oughtn’t to be told,” said Mr. Mergleson. “I was thinking of that.” Mr. Darling was not the sort of man to meet trouble half-way. He shook his head at that. “Not yet, Mr. Mergleson. I don’t think yet. Not until everything’s been tried. I don’t think there’s any need to give her needless distress,—none whatever. If you don’t mind I think I’ll come up to-night—nineish say—and ’ave a talk to you and Thomas about it—a quiet talk. Best to begin with a _quiet_ talk. It’s a dashed rum go, and me and you we got to think it out a bit.” “That’s what _I_ think,” said Mr. Mergleson with unconcealed relief at Mr. Darling’s friendliness. “That’s exactly the light, Mr. Darling, in which it appears to me. Because, you see—if ’e’s all right and in the ’ouse, why doesn’t ’e come for ’is vittels?” § 2