The glass
rattled in the frames, and the tree outside creaked and groaned as its
great branches were tossed about by the gale. What could draw any man
forth upon such a night?
Hurriedly Robert struck a match and lit his lamp. His father's room was
opposite his own, and the door was ajar. He pushed it open and looked
about him. It was empty. The bed had not even been lain upon.
The single chair stood by the window, and there the old man must have
sat since he left them. There was no book, no paper, no means by which
he could have amused himself, nothing but a razor-strop lying on the
window-sill.
A feeling of impending misfortune struck cold to Robert's heart. There
was some ill-meaning in this journey of his father's. He thought of his
brooding of yesterday, his scowling face, his bitter threats.
Yes, there was some mischief underlying it. But perhaps he might even
now be in time to prevent it. There was no use calling Laura. She
could be no help in the matter. He hurriedly threw on his clothes,
muffled himself in his top-coat, and, seizing his hat and stick, he set
off after his father.
As he came out into the village street the wind whirled down it, so that
he had to put his ear and shoulder against it, and push his way forward.
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