Two hours later his Chief's answer came.
Take no action. Treves handling the matter.
While Sinclair was writing his telegram Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had accompanied Parkson out into the asphalted yard. Only certain limited areas of the fort were open to friends of the officers. "I am afraid it is very feminine of me," exclaimed Mrs. Monmouth as they passed the bakehouse door, "but I should so love to peep inside."
"By all means," responded Parkson, showing himself indulgent to feminine curiosity.
She tripped across the yard, and peered into the half darkness of the bakehouse. She was carrying out her instructions, which were to find out what had become of Sims, but even the astuteness of Dacent Smith himself at this moment would have failed to detect guile in the girlish innocence of her expression as she looked into the face of the red-haired Scotch baker who had succeeded Sims. She examined the great tray of newly-baked loaves, uttered feminine exclamations of astonishment and admiration at all she saw, and finally smiled sweetly into the face of the dour Scotch corporal.
"I suppose you have been here ages and ages, Mr. Lyle?"
"No, madam, it's no more than a month since I came."
Parkson, who had listened good-humouredly, awaited her at the door, and as they crossed the asphalt together Mrs. Monmouth questioned him as to the baker who had preceded Lyle. She put her questions deftly, in a manner that would arouse no suspicion.
"Oh, no, Sims isn't at the front." He looked at her for a moment with fleeting doubt in his gaze, and decided to say no more about Sims. But Mrs. Monmouth's keen eyes interpreted his expression of reserve. He knew something. She smiled inwardly. What he knew she, too, would know.
"I am afraid we must stop here," Parkson suddenly said, "I am not allowed to take anyone beyond this barbed wire."