“No,” said Magnus, turning his haggard face to his friend, “to shoot him as I would a rabid dog.”
“And be put on your trial for murder. No; my plan’s best.”
“Your plan!” said Magnus, fiercely. “What can you do? You forget the circumstances of the case. Before we can reach them the scoundrel will have married her. You cannot touch him.”
Artingale ground his teeth as he seemed to realise the truth of what was said. Then, turning, he urged the man on to greater speed.
All was quiet and orderly in the great office at Whitehall, and a quiet, thoughtful official heard their business, raised his eyebrows a little, and then made a few notes.
“You will keep the matter as quiet as possible,” said Artingale, “for the sake of the young lady’s family; but at all costs she must be brought back.”
“We’ll soon find the scoundrel, my lord; but from your description he is not a London man.”
“London, no; he is one of those scoundrels who live more by poaching than anything.”
“All right, sir. I’ll take your address—and yours, sir. Can I find you here—at what time?”
“Time!” cried Artingale; “I have no time but for this affair. I’ll stay here with you and your men—live here—sleep here. Damme, I’ll join the force if it will help to bring the poor child back. It is horribly bad! She was to have been married this morning.”