“It is seven years,” remarked Valencia. “I remember.” She looked again at Harborough. “He went away, suddenly, just before you did,” she added. “And that’s seven years ago.”
Harborough moved a little uneasily in his chair. He had no wish to be drawn into discussion of the Markenmore family secrets. But he felt a certain curiosity.
“Absolutely!” replied Valencia. “None of us—and no one connected with us—have heard a word of him since then.”
“But—money matters?” suggested Harborough. “He’d want money. Has he never applied for any?—some allowance, for instance?”
“He’d money of his own,” said Harry. “His mother’s money all came to him at her death. No—it’s as Val says, we’ve never heard anything of him since he left Markenmore, and we don’t know where he is. I wish we did!—my father can’t last long.”
“Well, I must go,” he said. “You’ll be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do? But you say Sir Anthony’s not in immediate danger?”
“Not immediate,” replied Harry. “But—any time. And, as he’s fidgety about not being left, you’ll excuse me if I go back to him? If he seems a bit stronger tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re home again, and no doubt you can see him when you look in. You’ll come again soon?”
“Surely!” said Harborough. He walked into the hall with Valencia when Harry had gone, and once more gave her an admonitory look. “You’ll not forget to send for me if I can ever give any help?” he continued. “I’m not to be treated as a mere neighbour, you know—now that I’m back!”
“I’ll not forget,” she answered. She glanced round: at the far end of the shadow-laden hall Braxfield was just appearing, key in hand; she motioned Harborough aside. “There’s something I want to ask you,” she whispered. “Have you any idea why my brother Guy left home, and why he’s never returned? You!—yourself?”
Her eyes, big and dark, were fixed upon him with a peculiar earnestness, and she saw him start a little and compress his lips.
Harborough, too, glanced at Braxfield: the old butler, unconscious of this intimate question—and—answer, was drawing nearer.
“I may know—something,” murmured Harborough. “If—if I think—on reflection—I ought to tell you—I will. Later.”
She gave him an understanding nod, a whispered word of thanks, and went away up the dark staircase behind them. And Braxfield, after a word or two with Harborough, let the visitor out, and locked the big door, and drew across it a weighty chair which had done duty in that respect for many a generation of Markenmores. The house was secured for the night.