“Gale!” he called. Did he fancy that the girls hesitated for a moment and then went on? He called again but they did not turn. Starting after them he reached the turn in the road just in time to see the girls climb into a farmer’s wagon and the wagon start off down the road.
Brent went back to the old Frenchman and asked him if he knew the girls. In these small towns nearly everybody knew everybody else.
“It is François Bouchard’s sister,” the old man nodded. “She lives with her brother on a small farm east of the village.”
“And the other girl?” Brent asked.
“I do not know, Monsieur.”
That was that Brent decided. He would have no rest now until he learned if the girl really was Gale. Certainly the likeness had been astonishing. The girl had seemed in the height of gay spirits. But if it really had been Gale, well and strong as this girl, wouldn’t she have sent word to her parents? Tried to get back home? He rumpled his hair in perplexity and replaced his hat. He would start after them and ask questions. He might discover something. But when he returned to the inn where he had left his chauffeur, the man was gone. For an hour Brent fumed in impatience until the man finally reappeared. To all Brent’s upbraidings the man turned a deaf ear. He merely climbed into the car and sat waiting. Without further waste of time Brent climbed in beside him and, having secured directions from the old man, set off in the direction of Bouchard’s cottage.
The car bumped along over ruts hidden by the snow and ice. The driver might just as well not have been present for all the company he was to Brent. He uttered not one word from the time they left the village, replying to all Brent’s attempts at conversation with grunts. Brent had always thought the French-Canadians friendly, sociable people, but this man irked him. Soon he forgot his companion, however, forgot about the uncomfortable car in which he rode and which jolted his shoulder, causing it to pain him, and concentrated on the object of his search.
For days, weeks, he had been traveling, seeking some touch, some clue to the whereabouts of Gale. Yet not three hours before he had seen her, apparently well and happy. There must be some explanation!
His musings were brought to a sudden halt and he was thrown so far forward as to almost bump his nose on the windshield. Brent could speak fluent French and he used it to good advantage. He poured a tirade out on the head of the driver. The man merely gestured to the trees and the end of the road to which they had come. Brent had to see that it was impossible for the car to go any farther.
The driver signified his intention to remain in the car by slumping down in the seat and pulling his cap over his eyes for a quiet nap.