On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Then there was also the horse. Looking for something, or someone, probably. " "A secret!" exclaimed Trenchard. This was done, and Austin returned with a crest-fallen look to the table. ‘You are an avid reader, I take it.
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