"No," he said, sharply; "I've got a rhubarb draught, a bottle of chlorodyne, the sal-volatile, and a lancet. That will be enough. Think I meant to shoot the girl?" "Don't be absurd, dear! Take care, there is someone coming." "Another call for me!" grumbled the doctor, sleepily. "That's the effect of giving parties in a hot climate. Hullo!" "Yes, doctor," said a familiar voice. "Oh! it's you two. Well have you found her all right?" "We've been to Stuart's," said the Resident, sharply. "Well, what news?" "They have not seen or heard of either of them," replied the Resident. "Do you know that my--" "Oh, hush!" whispered Mrs Doctor, excitedly, "you had better not--" "Why, they must know it, my dear," he whispered back. "It is of no use to hide anything." "I did not understand you, doctor," said the Resident. "I say that my brother-in-law, Rosebury, has not been home." "The chaplain!" cried Mr Harley, and he stopped short upon the path. "Hasn't been home," continued the doctor. "They've all gone in somewhere. Who else is away?" "Hilton and Chumbley." "Oh, it's all right. They're somewhere; but it's very foolish of them to frighten some people and rouse others up like this," said the doctor. "I hope we shall find a pleasant solution of what is at present a mystery," said the Resident. "Mrs Bolter, it is very kind of you to come," he added, warmly. "Yes; I thank you too," said Perowne, in a dreamy, absent way. "It is very strange; but where is Miss Stuart?" "Stuart said she was asleep," said the Resident. "Oh, to be sure. Yes; I remember," said Mr Perowne. "We took her safely home," said Mrs Bolter, quickly. They had not far to go to the gates of the merchant's grounds, but it seemed to all to be a long and dreary walk past the various dark houses of the European and native merchants, not one of which gave any token of the life within. The gates were open, and they walked over the gritting gravel to where the door stood, like the windows of the bungalow, still open, and a lamp or two were yet burning in the grounds, one of which paper lanterns, as they approached, caught fire, and blazed up for a moment and then hung, a few shreds of tinder, from a verdant arch. It was a mere trifle, but it seemed like a presage of some trouble to the house, seen as it was by those who approached, three of the party being in that unreal, uncomfortable state suffered by all who are roused from their sleep to hear that there is "something wrong." The servants looked soared as they entered, and announced that they had been looking, as they expressed it, "everywhere" without success. Lanterns were lit and a thorough exploration of the grounds followed, the only result being that a glove was found--plainly enough one that had been dropped by someone walking near the river.