“Oh, but she never would! What is the use of saying such things?” exclaimed Miss Whitwell, and immediately added, “Perhaps she is somewhere near, and we shall find her.” But Margaret felt sure that she would not be found, and, instead of joining the others, she went to Mrs. Wythburn, who was still going into one room after another, and peering into all sorts of unlikely places, searching for her missing daughter and sobbing as if her heart would break. Presently in came Alfred Greenholme and his father, the former feeling more disturbed than he had ever felt in his life before. “What in the world is the matter?” he said. “Stapleton seems to have taken leave of his senses. He was as incoherent as if he had been drinking; but I understand him to say that Mary is missing.” “Yes; he said what is true. Mary cannot be found.” “Then there must have been foul play. Where were her jewels kept? Have they been stolen?” “No,” replied Margaret; “nothing seems to have been touched. All her wedding presents are exactly as they were, and her jewels are in the drawer in which they were always kept.” “What am I to do?” asked Alfred. “Surely Mary will be here presently. She will not get late for the wedding? She fixed the time herself.” “I am so sorry for you,” said Hilda Copeland. “Mary must have been out of her senses.” “Did she seem so? Was she ill last night?” demanded Greenholme. “She did not say so. She was very quiet, though.” “Quiet!” repeated Alfred, forgetting to be courteous. “She was never other than quiet. But such conduct is perfectly inexplicable. Are you sure Mary is not in the house, Miss Miller?” “Quite sure. We have looked everywhere.” “Where is Stapleton? He might go and prevent the carriages from coming. We do not want a row of them standing in front of the house for an hour.” “The servants will attend to that. There will be no wedding to-day,” said Margaret. “Do not say so. Mary may yet be in time. Is there no letter, or something to explain where she is or what she has done?” demanded the disappointed bridegroom. “No; we can find nothing.” “Then she will be forthcoming presently.” But she was not; the searchers returned and looked at each other in dismay. The hours wore on. Mr. Greenholme thought the police should be communicated with, but Mr. Wythburn was not willing. “I cannot have detectives trying to track my daughter,” he said. “Mary is not a child unable to take care of herself. We shall have a telegram presently, or a letter from her in the morning.” Alfred Greenholme said very little. But when Mrs. Wythburn came tremblingly towards him, and kissed him, he said, “Do not be more anxious than you can help. We both know Mary. Nothing dreadful can have happened. We must wait. And let us keep our own counsel as much as we can, and not set the whole town gossiping.”