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“My whole life is wrapped up in the little fellow,” he continued. “Well, I hope we shall find him all right on our return. Are you really coming back with me?”

“Certainly, if you will have me. I shall not rest easy myself until I know that the boy is safe.”

We turned in the direction of Durham’s house. We ran up the steps.

“Have you seen them, sir?” Asked the butler, as he opened the door.

“No. Are they not back yet?” Asked Durham.

“No, sir; we have heard nor seen nothing of either of them.”

“This is quite unprecedented,” said the artist. “Jane knows well that I never allow the boy to be out after five o’clock. It is nearly seven now. You are quite certain,” he added, turning to the man, “that no message has come to account for tile child’s delay?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

“What do you think of it, Head?” He looked at me inquiringly.

“It is impossible to tell you,” I replied; “a thousand things may keep the nurse out. Let us wait for another hour. If the child has not returned by then, we ought certainly to take some action.”

I avoided looking at Durham as I spoke, for Lady Faulkner’s words to Mme. Koluchy returned unpleasantly to my memory:

“I shall do it tomorrow or next day — you have arranged about the nurse?”

We went into the studio, and Durham offered me a cigarette. As he did so I suddenly heard a commotion in a distant part of the house; there was the sound of hurrying feet and the noise of more than one voice raised in agitation and alarm. Durham’s face turned ghastly.

“There has been an accident,” he said. “I felt that there was something wrong. God help me!”

He rushed to the door. I followed him. Just as he reached it, it was flung open, and the nurse, a comely-looking woman, of between thirty and forty years of age, ran in and flung herself at Durham’s feet.

“You’ll never forgive me, sir,” she gasped. “I feel fit to kill myself.”

“Get up, Jane, at once, and tell me what has happened. Speak! Is anything wrong with the child?”

“Oh, sir, he is gone — he is lost! I don’t know where he is. Oh, I know you’ll never forgive me. I could scarcely bring myself to come home to tell you.”

“That was folly. Speak now. Tell the whole story at once.”

Durham’s manner had changed. Now that the blow had really fallen, he was himself once again — a man of keen action, resolute, resolved.

The woman stared at him, then she staggered to her feet, a good deal of her own self-control restored by his manner.

“It was this way, sir,” she began. “Baby and I went out as usual early this afternoon. You know how fond baby has always been of Lady Faulkner?”

“Lady Faulkner has nothing to do with this matter,” interrupted Durham. “Proceed with your story.”

“Her ladyship is in Scotland; at least, it is supposed so, sir,” continued the woman. “She came here late last night, and bade us all good-bye. I was undressing baby when she entered the nursery. She took him in her arms and kissed him many times. Baby loves her very much. He always called her ‘Pitty lady.’ He began to cry when she left the room.”

“Go on! Go on!” Said Durham.

“Well, sir, baby and I went into the park. You know how active the child is, as merry as a lark, and always anxious to be down on his legs. It was a beautiful day, and I sat on one of the seats and baby ran about. He was very fond of playing hide-and-seek round the shrubs, and I used to humour him. He asked for his usual game. Suddenly I heard him cry out, ‘Pitty lady! Pitty lady,’ and run as fast as ever he could round to the other side of a big clump of rhododendrons. He was within a few feet of me, and I was just about to follow him — for half the game, sir, was for me to peep round the opposite side of the trees and try to catch him — when a gentleman whose acquaintance I had made during the last two days came up and began to speak to me. He was a Mr. Ivanhoe, and a very gentlemanly person, sir. We talked for a minute or two, and I’ll own I forgot baby. The moment I remembered him I ran round the rhododendrons to look for him, but from that hour to now, sir, I have seen nothing