At twenty-five to eight there was still no sign of the Saint. Patricia took to moving restlessly about the room. She felt suddenly depressed. The Saint had gone swashbuckling off into the blue, without a word to anyone—and had blasted his reputation for punctuality. He might have been in so many different places, trying to do so many different things: she raged at her helplessness. She could only wait and wait and wait, and he’d either turn up or he wouldn’t. No clue. . . . Anything might have happened to him. She racked her brains to deduce where he would be most likely to have gone, and an appalling number of possibilities made faces at her and invited her to take her pick. Orace came in again. He had taken off his apron and put on his coat and a cap. One of his pockets bulged and sagged. “I’m gonna see if I can find ’im, miss,” he said. “But wiv yore permission I’ll see you ’ome fust.” She stood up. “Where are you going?” “Jus lookin rahnd, miss. ’E tole me wun or two plyces ta try. I’ll find ’im orlright—don chew worry.” “I’ll come with you,” she said at once. He shook his head. “Carnt ave ya doin that. Fennything wuz ta appen to yer, ’e’d kill me.” “Where do we go first?” she demanded, ignoring his reply. “Where do _I_ go fust?” he amended. “Well, I can tell ya that.” He fished the Saint’s note out of his pocket and gave it to her. She read it through with growing apprehension. It had somehow failed to occur to her that he would automatically spend the time before evening in investigating the second possibility of the other Old House—the disused inn behind the village. That was where he must have gone. Perhaps he had been trapped there. . . . “Come on,” she rapped, and led the way. Outside, she took the path which led down to the inland end of the village, instead of the one which led to the opposite tor by way of the quay, and Orace hurried after her and caught her arm. “Wrong wy, miss,” he said. She looked at him. “This is the way I’m going.” “Sorry, miss,” he persisted. “I carnt letcha do that.” “Can’t you?” she said slowly. “I’m sorry, but I must. I’ll show you——” With a lightning twist she shook off his hand and ran. She could hear him racing lamely after her, shouting and imploring her to stop and think what the Saint would say, but she ran on like the wind. She went down the slope at break-neck speed, surefooted as a cat, but Orace limped along behind doggedly, sliding and stumbling in the steep darkness. Then a stone rolled under her foot: she jumped to save herself, caught her other foot in a tuft of grass, floundered, and went down in a heap. He had grabbed her before she could rise. “I’m sorry, miss, but it’s me dooty, an ’e’d sy the syme.” She got to her feet, shaken and breathless, but relieved to find that she had not even slightly twisted her ankle. Orace felt something hard dig into his ribs, and knew what it was.