"And when am I to be asked down to see Miss Monk?"
"Very shortly, as soon as I have her father's consent."
"Oh, she has a father?"
"Yes, but no mother. By the way," I said swiftly, to avert further questions, "you didn't give me your opinion of the case I put to you."
"I don't know what sort of opinion to give," said Cannington testily; "the best thing to be done is to find out who it was entered the shop when Miss Monk went away. I can think of nothing else."
Cannington’s opinion was mine also. But if Gertrude refused to speak I did not see what I could do. Besides, she was anxious for me to abandon the case. I felt inclined to do so myself, much as the mystery piqued me. However, I ceased to discuss it with Cannington--who really took very little interest in intricacies—and we spent the evening at theatre. Next day I furbished up the Rippler and departed at top speed for Burwain.
I flew, so to speak, on the wings of love, as I was desperately anxious to reach the side of my darling. It was a wet day and the roads were in a very bad condition. Nevertheless I broke every rule with regard to speed and defied the police traps. I broke through three, I know, and managed to escape having the number of my car taken. By the time I reached Burwain I had accumulated a tidy sum in fines. I did not care. I would have paid three times as much to reach Gertrude. But the fun of it was that, owing to my desperate haste, there was no chance of my being made to pay the money, as I had flown past with the speed of a kingfisher. "More haste, less speed" was not a true proverb in this instance.
So anxious was I to hold Gertrude in my arms that I halted the Rippler before the gate of The Lodge and proposed, dripping as I was, to have an interview before driving on to the Robin Redbreast. I soon made my way to the door, and rang the bell. The house looked forlorn and dismal in the misty rain, and there was a chill in the atmosphere. But love cares very little for such discomforts, so I smiled gaily at Eliza when she appeared at the door. She was a sour-faced, elderly woman, with a silent tongue, and usually never opened her mouth, even to me, although I was a constant visitor. But on this occasion, with a somewhat disturbed face, she spoke eagerly and seemed pleased to see me.
"Thank goodness you have come, sir," she whispered, with a backward glance, "I know you'll make him clear out."
"Make who clear out, Eliza?" I asked, staring.