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“And I will go back to Regent’s Park to find out if the keepers have learned anything,” I said.

We went our separate ways.

The next few days were spent in fruitless endeavours to recover the missing child. No stone was left unturned; the police were active in the search — large rewards were freely offered. Durham, accompanied by a private detective; spent his entire time rushing from place to place. His face grew drawn and anxious, his work was altogether neglected. He slept badly, and morning after morning awoke feeling so ill that his friends became alarmed about him.

“If this fearful strain continues much longer I shall fear for his life,” said Dufrayer, one evening, to me. This was at the end of the first week.

On the next morning there was a fresh development in the unaccountable mystery. The nurse, Jane Cleaver, who had been unfeignedly grieving for the child ever since his disappearance, had gone out and had not returned. Inquiries were immediately set on foot with regard to what had become of her, but not a clue could be obtained as to her whereabouts.

On the evening of that day I called to see Durham, and found the poor fellow absolutely distracted.

“If this suspense continues much longer, I believe I shall lose my reason,” he said. “I cannot think what has come to me. It is not only the absence of the child. I feel as if I were under the weight of some terrible illness. I cannot explain to you what my nights are. I have horrible nightmares. I suffer from a sensation as if I were being scorched by fire. In the morning I awake more dead than alive. During the day I get a little better, but the following night the same thing is repeated. The image of the child is always before my eyes. I see him everywhere. I hear his voice crying to me to come and rescue him.”

He turned aside, so overcome by emotion that he could scarcely speak.

“Durham,” I said suddenly, “I have come here this evening to tell you that I have made up my mind.”

“To do what?” He asked.

“I am going to Scotland tomorrow. I mean to visit Lady Faulkner at Bram Castle. It is quite possible that she knows something of the fate of the child. One thing, at least, is certain, that a person who had a strong likeness to her beguiled the little fellow round the rhododendron clump.”

Durham smiled faintly.

“I cannot agree with you,” he said. “I would stake my life on the honour of Lady Faulkner.”

“At least you must allow me to make inquiries,” I replied. “I shall be away for a few days. I may return with tidings. Keep up your heart until you see me again.”

On the following evening I found myself in Inverness-shire. I put up at a small village just outside the estate of Bram. The castle towering on its beetling cliffs hung over the rushing waters of the River Bramley. I slept at the little inn, and early on the following morning made my way to the castle. Lady Faulkner was at home, and showed considerable surprise at seeing me. I noticed that her colour changed, and a look of consternation visited her large, beautiful eyes.

“You startled me, Mr. Head,” she said; “is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? Yes,” I answered. “Is it possible you have not heard the news?”

“What news?” She inquired. She immediately regained her self-control, sat down on the nearest chair, and looked me full in the face.

“I have news which will cause you sorrow, Lady Faulkner. You were fond of Durham’s boy, were you not?”

“Mr. Durham’s boy — sweet little Robin?” She cried. “Of course. Has anything happened to him?”

“Is it possible that you have not heard? The child is lost.”

I then related all that had occurred. Lady Faulkner looked at me gravely, with just the right expression of distress coming and going on her face. When I had finished my narrative there were tears in her eyes.

“This will almost send Mr. Durham to his grave,” she cried; “but surely — surely the child will be found?”

“The child must be found,” I said. As I spoke I looked at her steadily. Immediately my suspicions were strengthened. She gazed at me with that wonderful calm