Runton waved his companions on, and leaned down to Duncombe.
"Beastly unpleasant thing happened, Duncombe," he said. "Fielding and his daughter have bolted. Fielding seems to have half killed a messenger who came down from London to see Von Rothe, and stolen some papers. Fact of the matter is he's not Fielding at all—and as for the girl! Lord knows who she is. Sorry for you, Duncombe. Hope you weren't very hard hit!"
He gathered up his reins.
"We've sent telegrams everywhere," he said, "but the beast has cut the telephone, and Von Rothe blasphemes if we talk about the police. It's a queer business."
He rode off. Duncombe returned where the girl was standing. She was clutching at the branches of the shrub as though prostrate with fear, but at his return she straightened herself. How much had she heard he wondered.
"Don't move!" he said.
She nodded.
"Can any one see me?" she asked.
"Not from the road."
"From the house?"