The boys looked from one to the other with the round eyes of growing fear and dread. The calamity, as announced by Pierpont, did not seem adequate for the consternation it caused, but an oppressive sense of apprehension was in the air. “What made her want to sing?” said the widow; “she was too sick to sing.” “That’s what I told her, but she insisted. She was determined to. She said she was going to Europe to study.” “Going to Europe!” It was Barron’s deep voice that put the question this time, Mrs. Garcia being too astonished by this last piece of intelligence to have breath for speech. “When was she going to Europe?” “In a day or two--as soon as she could pack her trunks, she said. I don’t really think she was quite accountable for what she said. She was burning with a fever and she seemed in a tremendously wrought-up state. I think her fright of the night before had quite upset her. I tried to cheer her up, but she ran away as if she was frantic. Have any of you seen her?” “No,” said Mrs. Garcia, her voice curiously flat. “She’s gone.” “Gone?” echoed Pierpont. “Gone where?” “We don’t any of us know. But she’s not in the house anywhere. And now it’s getting dark and--” There was a pause, one of those pregnant pauses of mute anxiety while each eyed the other with glances full of an alarmed surmise. “Perhaps the robber came and took her away,” said Benito in a voice of terror. No one paid any attention. As if by common consent all present fastened questioning eyes on Barron. He stood looking down, his brows knit. The silence of dumb uneasiness was broken by the entrance of the Chinaman from the kitchen. With the expressionless phlegm of his race he lit the two hall gas-jets, gently but firmly moving the señora out of his way, and paying no attention to the silent group at the stair foot. “Ching,” said Barron suddenly, “have you seen Miss Moreau this afternoon?” “Yes,” returned the Celestial, carefully adjusting the tap of the second gas, “she go out hap-past four. She heap hurry. She look welly bad--heap sick I guess; no umblella; get awful wet.” With his noiseless tread he retreated up the passage to the kitchen. “Well, I’ll go,” said Barron suddenly. “She’s just possibly gone out to see some one and will be back soon. But no umbrella in this rain! Have her room warm and everything ready.” He turned round and in an instant was gone. The little group at the stairpost looked at one another with pale faces. It was possible that Mariposa had gone out to see some one. But the dread of disaster was at every heart. CHAPTER XXIV A BROKEN TOOL “A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me.” --SHAKESPEARE.