He tried to ask for Miss Maclean, but he could not bring her name over his lips; so, lifting his hat, he hastily left the shop. He emptied his first glass of wine at dinner, before he ventured to broach the subject to his aunt. "You did not tell me Miss Simpson had emigrated," he said suddenly. "Miss Simpson! What Miss Simpson? Bless the boy! he's developing quite a taste for local gossip. I only heard it myself three or four days ago. It seems that niece--whom you thought such a genius, by the way--went to America some time ago, and now her aunt has gone to join her." "_Nonsense!_ I mean"--Ralph laughed rather nervously--"I can't conceive of any one sending across the Atlantic for old Simpson. And, besides--that--young lady--wasn't her niece at all, auntie mine. She was a distant cousin." "I think you are mistaken, dear. The _young woman_ told me herself she was Miss Simpson's niece, and I suppose she ought to know." Dimly it occurred to Ralph that he and his aunt must be talking of two different people; but his mind was in such a whirl of bewilderment that reflection was impossible, and as soon as dinner was over, he escaped to his own room, on the true plea of a racking headache. What had happened? Was it all a hideous nightmare, from which he would awake with infinite relief; or was some evil genius really turning his life upside down? What an infernal idiot he had been not to speak out plainly six months ago! And to think that he had waited only for this examination,--this trumpery bit of child's-play! Perhaps she had expected him to write, perhaps she had gone to America in despair; at all events, she had vanished out of his life like the heroine of a fairy tale, and he had not the vaguest notion where to look for her. Then saner thoughts began to take form in his mind. He was living, after all, in the latter part of the nineteenth century. People could not vanish now-a-days and leave no trace. There must be many in Borrowness who could tell him where she was. Yes; but who were they? He knew few people in the place, and he could not go round from door to door making enquiries. At last, with a rush of thankfulness, he bethought himself of Mr Stuart and Matilda Cookson. Both of them were sure to know where Miss Maclean had gone. He looked at his watch--yes, it was past his aunt's bedtime, and not too late to drop in on Stuart. He told the servants not to sit up if he should be late, and then he walked along the highroad to Kirkstoun, at a pace few men could have equalled. Once more disappointment awaited him. Mr Stuart was away for a month's holiday, and the manse was occupied by his "supply." Dudley was certainly not intimate enough with the Cooksons to pay them a visit at this hour; so he was forced, sorely against his will, to postpone his enquiries until the next day.