“And if it is a wild-goose chase, how foolish you will look!”
“Yes; one has to take risks, and I’m ready to chance that. Now I see all the others anxious to start and I must not detain you. Good-bye, old man”—wringing his hand—“I leave you to explain everything. Wish me luck.”
“I wish you luck,” rejoined the other, putting his own construction on the word; and in another minute the two had separated.
CHAPTER XIII
Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately pack a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his wife. The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall, the drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At last he discovered her in the garden—a most sequestered spot, some distance from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded by terraces and broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an island in one of the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump a hammock, in the hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette, and a tiny “sleeve” dog.
“My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings you back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off anyone’s head?”
“No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.”
“From the duke?”—struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant.