“You have searched in every place, likely and unlikely?” “In every place.” Then a very cruel light leapt into his eyes, in that deep shadow that encircled them, and his lips closed one over the other grimly, as he looked across at the doorkeeper. “Who is to thank for this?” “It was a circumstance quite unforeseen.” “I don’t doubt it. Where is that heavy-sleeping ass, whose snores swallow up footfalls and opening doors?” “You mean—” “I mean your first cousin for dulness of perception. Send me that brainless thing called Mariana.” Everard withdrew. He walked along the corridor as evenly as usual. Whether doubt or misgiving was in his mind, it showed nothing in his face. There, in the outer hall, scarcely having moved during the whole time, sat Mariana. On the opening of the door she looked up. “The Master wishes to speak to you.” “Is he very angry?” “Nothing but what may be appeased. But you had better say no more than you can help.” She got up without a word, and went to the study. “Where is the girl I entrusted to you?” he said, as soon as the door was closed. “She has escaped during the night.” “At what time?” “Between ten and six.” “The time is vague. You’re a sound sleeper to be able to count eight hours of unconsciousness.” “I merit it by hard work during the day.” “Oh! you should have explained this a little earlier. If your work was too hard, others could have been set to watch. Your excuse is admirable.” “It is no excuse, it is the truth.” “You never heard a footfall, nor a door creak?” “No. The doors, as you know, have never creaked.” “I know nothing. You will perhaps enlighten me, and not take too much for granted.” “I can say nothing but in answer to your questions.” “And you know nothing of the hour of escape?” “I know only that I saw her safely into bed last night, looking utterly tired out. She fell asleep almost before I left the room. This morning I found the door leading from my room into hers standing open, and that leading to the corridor off the latch.” “Has she left anything behind her?” “I found her hat and cloak in the wardrobe; I do not think she can have taken them.” “Your deduction is beyond argument. A little less sleep would stir that muddled, dreamy brain of yours into some semblance, at least, of action.” “I don’t think it’s the sleep that makes me stupid. It’s the dull greyness of the sky.” “Maybe. What penalty are you inclined to pay for your neglect and lack of vigilance?” “It was not neglect. I slept heavier than I have ever slept before. I believe God helped her, for she was young and good and innocent.” “You seem to entertain no sorrow for your neglect of duty.” Her puzzled eyes, tired and questioning, met his. “No, I do not feel sorry. How can I? She could not settle to this prison life as I have done. She was of a softer and more yielding nature. What hardens me would soon have killed her altogether.”