But Mrs. Ryle knew that her easy-natured husband was not one to "have it out" with any one, even his enemy Chattaway. He might say a few words, but it was all he would say, and the interview would end almost as soon as begun. She took off her things, and Molly carried the supper-tray into the parlour. But still there was no Mr. Ryle. Ten o'clock struck, and Mrs. Ryle grew, not exactly uneasy, but curious as to what could have become of him. What _could_ be detaining him at the Hold? "It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he has been taken too bad to come back," said Nora. "He unwound his scarlet cravat from his throat, and went away swinging it in his hand. John Pinder's waiting all this time in the kitchen." "Have you finished your lessons, George?" asked Mrs. Ryle, perceiving that he was putting his books away. "Every one," answered George. "Then you shall go up to the Hold, and walk home with your father. I cannot think what is delaying his return." "Perhaps he has gone somewhere else," said George. "He would neither go anywhere else nor remain at Chattaway's," said Mrs. Ryle. "This is Tuesday evening." A conclusive argument. Tuesday evening was invariably devoted by Mr. Ryle to his farm accounts, and he never suffered anything to interfere with that evening's work. George put on his cap and started on his errand. It was a starlight night, cold and clear, and George went along whistling. A quarter of an hour's walk up the turnpike road brought him to Trevlyn Hold. The road rose gently the whole way, for the land was higher at Trevlyn Hold than at Trevlyn Farm. A white gate, by the side of a lodge, opened to the shrubbery or avenue--a dark walk wide enough for two carriages to pass, with the elm trees nearly meeting overhead. The shrubbery wound up to a lawn stretched before the windows of the house: a large, old-fashioned stone-built house, with gabled roofs, and a flight of steps leading to the entrance-hall. George ascended the steps and rang the bell. "Is my father ready to come home?" he asked, not very ceremoniously, of the servant who answered it. The man paused, as though he scarcely understood. "Mr. Ryle is not here, sir," was the answer. "How long has he been gone?" "He has not been here at all, sir, that I know of. I don't think he has." "Just ask, will you?" said George. "He came here to see Mr. Chattaway. It was about five o'clock." The man went away and returned. "Mr. Ryle has not been here at all, sir. I thought he had not." George wondered. Could he be out somewhere with Chattaway? "Is Mr. Chattaway at home?" he inquired. "Master is in bed," said the servant. "He came home to-day about five, or thereabouts, not feeling well, and he went to bed as soon as tea was over."