By way of making a move in the right direction, he went into the hall and performed vigorously on a little gong which stood there. Clementina usually did this twice—a wakening peal and a breakfast peal, with an interval of half an hour. To warn everybody that things were not going on us usual, Tom promptly repeated his performance. It did not bring Clementina upon the scene, dishevelled and in deep self-humiliation. The first appearance was Miss Latimer, who came downstairs, her usual prim self, saying— “What is the matter? I have been up for a while, but I had forgotten to wind my watch, and the house was so quiet that I thought I had mistaken the time, and in hope Mrs. Challoner is resting I did not wish to rouse her.” “I don’t think Clementina can be up herself,” said Tom. Miss Latimer glanced round the dining-room. “Perhaps she is ill,” she said. “She looked rather pale last night. She seems a very sympathetic person.” Miss Latimer called down the kitchen stair, but there was no answer save that the cat came forward, mewing in the appealing fashion common to cats when they feel themselves unfairly deprived of human society. “Clementina must be still in her room,” said the old lady, and she bustled up to the topmost storey, Tom following at her heels. One or two vigorous knocks produced no effect, so they tried the door. It was locked, and the key was evidently not in the lock on either side. Miss Latimer and Tom looked at each other aghast. “We must go downstairs at once and set the house going,” decided the old lady, “and we must not make any noise nor fuss till we have seen Mrs. Challoner.” As they passed downstairs, Lucy came out of her room, with the white, deeply graven face which tells of restless vigil. After a sleepless night she had slept heavily towards morning, and had only awakened with the sound of Tom’s gong. “We are all rather behind-hand,” Miss Latimer said, “and something is the matter with Clementina.” That was the utmost she would say until she and Tom had lit the fires. They found time to exchange a few whispered cogitations as they bustled about in the kitchen, into which they would not allow Lucy to intrude. “I don’t believe Clementina is in her room,” said Miss Latimer, “and I hope not, for it means something bad if she is.” “I do believe she has got frightened over our talk last night and has run away!” Tom remarked. “Who would have thought she would make tracks like this?” “Where can she be?” asked Miss Latimer. “I remember Lucy saying she was so sorry for her because she knew nobody here, and didn’t seem inclined to make friends.” “I hope she hasn’t committed suicide,” said Tom. “Why should she commit suicide?” asked Miss Latimer quite sharply. It was her own fear. “People do sometimes, though nobody knows why,” Tom said. And he went and took a nervous peep into the cellar and scullery, which revealed nothing worse than the general air of desertion which hung over all the premises.