Beatrice’s disappearance was known at Brandon Hall on the following day. The servants first made the discovery. They found her absent from her room, and no one had seen her about the house. It was an unusual thing for her to be out of the house early in the day, and of late for many months she had scarcely ever left her room, so that now her absence at once excited suspicion. The news was communicated from one to another among the servants. Afraid of Potts, they did not dare to tell him, but first sought to find her by themselves. They called Mrs. Compton, and the fear which perpetually possessed the mind of this poor, timid creature now rose to a positive frenzy of anxiety and dread. She told all that she knew, and that was that she had seen her the evening before as usual, and had left her at ten o’clock.

No satisfaction therefore could be gained from her. The servants tried to find traces of her, but were unable. At length toward evening, on Potts’s return from the bank, the news was communicated to him.

The rage of Potts need not be described here. That one who had twice defied should now escape him filled him with fury. He organized all his servants into bands, and they scoured the grounds till darkness put an end to these operations.

That evening Potts and his two companions dined in moody silence, only conversing by fits and starts.

“I don’t think she’s killed herself,” said Potts, in reply to an observation of Clark. “She’s got stuff enough in her to do it, but I don’t believe she has. She’s playing a deeper game. I only wish we could fish up her dead body out of some pond; it would quiet matters down very considerable.”

“If she’s got off she’s taken with her some secrets that won’t do us any good,” remarked John.

“The devil of it is,” said Potts, “we don’t know how much she does know. She must know a precious lot, or she never would have dared to say what she did.”

“But how could she get out of the park?” said Clark. “That wall is too high to climb over, and the gates are all locked.”

“It’s my opinion,” exclaimed John, “that she’s in the grounds yet.”

Potts shook his head.

“After what she told me it’s my belief she can do any thing. Why, didn’t she tell us of crimes that were committed before she was born? I begin to feel shaky, and it is the girl that has made me so.”

Potts rose to his feet, plunged his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up and down. The others sat in gloomy silence.

“Could that Hong Kong nurse of hers have told her any thing?” asked John.

“She didn’t know any thing to tell.”

“Mrs. Compton must have blown, then.”

“Mrs. Compton didn’t know. I tell you that there is not one human being living that knows what she told us besides ourselves and her. How the devil she picked it up I don’t know.”

“I didn’t like the cut of her from the first,” said John. “She had a way of looking that made me feel uneasy, as though there was something in her that would some day be dangerous. I didn’t want you to send for her.”

“Well, the mischief’s done now.”

“You’re not going to give up the search, are you?” asked Clark.

“Give it up! Not I.”

“We must get her back.”

“Yes; our only safety now is in catching her again at all hazards.”

There was a long silence.

“Twenty years ago,” said Potts, moodily, “the Vishnu drifted away, and since the time of the trial no one has mentioned it to me till that girl did.”

“And she is only twenty years old,” rejoined John.

“I tell you, lads, you’ve got the devil to do with when you tackle her,” remarked Clark; “but if she is the devil we must fight it out and crush her.”

“Twenty-three years,” continued Potts, in the same gloomy tone—“twenty-three years have passed since I was captured with my followers. No one has mentioned that since. No one in all the world knows that I am the only Englishman that ever joined the Thugs except that girl.”

“She must know every thing that we have done,” said Clark.

“Of course she must.”

“Including our Brandon enterprise,” said John.

“And including your penmanship.” said Clark; “enough, lad, to stretch a neck.”

“Come,” said Potts, “don’t let us talk of this, any how.”

Again they relapsed into silence.

“Well!” exclaimed John, at last, “what are you going to do to-morrow?”

“Chase her till I find her,” replied Potts, savagely.

“But where?”

“I’ve been thinking of a plan which seems to me to be about the thing.”

“What?”

“A good old plan,” said Potts. “Your pup, Johnnie, can help us.”

John pounded his fist on the table with savage exultation.

“My blood-hound! Good, old Dad, what a trump you are to think of that!”

“He’ll do it!”

“Yes,” said John, “if he gets on her track and comes up with her I’m a little afraid that we’ll arrive at the spot just too late to save her. It’s the best way that I know of for getting rid of the difficulty handsomely. Of course we are going after her through anxiety, and the dog is an innocent pup who comes with us; and if any disaster happens we will kill him on the spot.”

Potts shook his head moodily. He had no very hopeful feeling about this. He was shaken to the soul at the thought of this stern, relentless girl carrying out into the world his terrific secret.

Early on the following morning they resumed their search after the lost girl. This time the servants were not employed, but the three themselves went forth to try what they could do. With them was the “pup” to which allusion had been made on the previous evening. This animal was a huge blood-hound, which John had purchased to take the place of his bull-dog, and of which he was extravagantly proud. True to his instinct, the hound understood from smelling an article of Beatrice’s apparel what it was that he was required to seek, and he went off on her trail out through the front door, down the steps, and up to the grove.

The others followed after. The dog led them down the path toward the gate, and thence into the thick grove and through the underbrush. Scraps of her dress still clung in places to the brushwood. The dog led them round and round wherever Beatrice had wandered in her flight from Vijal. They all believed that they would certainly find her here, and that she had lost her way or at least tried to conceal herself. But at last, to their disappointment, the dog turned away out of the wood and into the path again. Then he led them along through the woods until he reached the Park wall. Here the animal squatted on his haunches, and, lifting up his head, gave a long deep howl.

“What’s this?” said Potts.

“Why, don’t you see? She’s got over the wall somehow. All that we’ve got to do is to put the dog over, and follow on.”

{Illustration: “WHY, DON’T YOU SEE? SHE’S GOT OVER THE WALL SOMEHOW."}

The others at once understood that this must be the case. In a short time they were on the other side of the wall, where the dog found the trail again, and led on while they followed as before.

They did not, however, wish to seem like pursuers. That would hardly be the thing in a country of law and order. They chose to walk rather slowly, and John held the dog by a strap which he had brought with him. They soon found the walk much longer than they had anticipated, and began to regret that they had not come in a carriage. They had gone too far, however, to remedy this now, so they resolved to continue on their way as they were.

“Gad!” said John, who felt fatigued first, “what a walker she is!”

“She’s the devil!” growled Clark, savagely.

At last, after about three hours’ walk, the dog stopped at a place by the road-side, and snuffed in all directions. The others watched him anxiously for a long time. The dog ran all around sniffing at the ground, but to no purpose.

He had lost the trail. Again and again he tried to recover it. But his blood-thirsty instinct was completely at fault. The trail had gone, and at last the animal came up to his master and crouched down at his feet with a low moan.

“Sold!” cried John, with a curse.

“What can have become of her?” said Potts.

“I don’t know,” said John. “I dare say she’s got took up in some wagon. Yes, that’s it. That’s the reason why the trail has gone.”

“What shall we do now? We can’t follow. It may have been the coach, and she may have got a lift to the nearest railway station.”

“Well,” said John, “I’ll tell you what we can do. Let one of us go to the inns that are nearest, and ask if there was a girl in the coach that looked like her, or make any inquiries that may be needed. We could find out that much at any rate.”

The others assented. John swore he was too tired. At length, after some conversation, they all determined to go on, and to hire a carriage back. Accordingly on they went, and soon reached an inn.

Here they made inquiries, but could learn nothing whatever about any girl that had stopped there. Potts then hired a carriage and drove off to the next inn, leaving the others behind. He returned in about two hours. His face bore an expression of deep perplexity.

“Well, what luck, dad?” asked John.

“There’s the devil to pay,” growled Potts.

“Did you find her?”

“There is a girl at the next inn, and it’s her. Now what name do you think they call her by?”

“What?”

“Miss Despard.”

Clark turned pale and looked at John, who gave a long, low whistle.

“Is she alone?” asked John.

“No—that’s the worst of it. A reverend gent is with her, who has charge of her, and says he is her brother.”

“Who?”

“His name is Courtenay Despard, son of Colonel Lionel Despard,” said Potts.

The others returned his look in utter bewilderment.

“I’ve been thinking and thinking,” said Potts, “but I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet. We can’t do any thing just now, that’s evident. I found out that this reverend gent is on his way to Holby, where he is rector. The only thing left for us to do is to go quietly home and look about us.”

“It seems to me that this is like the beginning of one of those monsoon storms,” said Clark, gloomily.

The others said nothing. In a short time they were on their way back, moody and silent.