Chapter Eighteen.
The Search Relinquished.
The little military party had no cause to complain of the hospitality of Brackendene.
The constable had, for, after staying behind, looking about him for sympathy, and finding none, the sound of the voices in the kitchen and the rattle of knives upon plates had such a strange effect upon him that it was quite curative, and, forgetting his injuries, he moved pompously up towards the kitchen door, feeling that, as one of the search-party, he had a right to partake of the refreshments.
But to his intense disgust he was met at the threshold by his plump, pleasant-looking sister, who planted herself, arms akimbo, right in his way.
“Well?” she said sharply, and with an attempt to look fierce—which was a perfect failure, by the way, for Martha Gusset’s was one of those countenances that never can by any possibility look angry, only a little comic when temper had the sway.
“No, not well, Martha,” said the constable plaintively; “but I don’t think I am very much hurt.”
“Serve you right if you were,” said the cook, “coming here like this when master’s out, and making a fuss about hidden spies, just to make people believe what a great person you are! They don’t know you like I do. Well, what do you want?”
“The young Squire said we were all to have lunch, and I have dragged myself here to have mine.”
“Dragged? Rolled, you mean!” cried his sister. “You grow more and more like a tub every day.”