“There’s two more wires, sir, that’s come in since eight this morning. The one of them says that there’s no further news of the missing gentlemen in Pool-a-donagh, and the other says that the ladies started back to Clonmore at seven this morning, and is in hopes that you’ll be here to meet them when they arrive. “If I’m not,” said Mr. Goddard--“and it’s quite possible that I won’t--if I’m not, you’ll have to see them, sergeant. They’re very nice ladies,” he added, noticing a gloom on Sergeant Farrelly’s face, “not the least like Miss Blow.” “It’s a queer thing,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “that a man could get lost between this and Pool-a-donagh. It’s a straight road, and they got started right on it. Jimmy O’Loughlin was telling me last night that he seen them going through the town, and them heading straight on the same as if they knew the place all their lives. Without they took a boat and went out to sea in it--and I don’t know where they’d get a boat along that road--it’s a queer thing.” “It is a queer thing,” said Mr. Goddard. “But what’s the use of spending the morning saying so? Show me all the telegrams that came last night.” He worked his way through a sheaf of pink forms. The messages were, for the most part, very monotonous. In language which hardly varied and with a strict attention to the number of words which can be sent for sixpence, the sergeants of all the police barracks within a wide circle disclaimed any knowledge of the missing gentlemen. No one had seen them. The most careful inquiries brought no information. Here and there, among these cold, official statements, Mr. Goddard came upon a message which breathed anxiety, heartbreak, and despair, a despatch from a wife or an aunt. These were verbose, reckless of expense, and always ended by urging the necessity of immediate action on the part of the police. “I can’t do anything,” said Mr. Goddard; “at all events, I won’t do anything till I’ve had some breakfast. It’s after nine now. I’ll go down to the hotel and see what I can get out of Jimmy O’Loughlin.” He found, when he reached the hotel, that the table in the commercial room was laid for breakfast. A pleasant scent of frying bacon reached him from the kitchen. He became aware that he was extremely hungry. “Jimmy!” he called. “Jimmy O’Loughlin!” “Is that yourself, Mr. Goddard?” said Jimmy, speaking from the top of the stairs. “They’re just getting the breakfast ready for the doctor’s young lady. I’ll tell them to fry a couple more eggs for you. She’ll be glad of your company. It’s lonely for the creature taking her meals by herself, and her in trouble about the loss of the doctor and all.” Jimmy O’Loughlin in his shirt-sleeves and without a collar leaned over the banisters as he spoke. The grin on his face was malicious. “Is Miss Blow here?” said Mr. Goddard. “I don’t believe she is. How could she?”