“The artfulness of her!” she ejaculated indignantly. “Asking me to go along to the chemist's and bring her back some aspirin for her headache! And me, like a fool, suspecting nothing, off I goes! There's the stuff!”—viciously flinging the chemist's parcel on to the floor. “Eh! Miss Molly'll have more than a headache to face, I'm thinking!”
“But she mustn't, Jane! We've got to get her back, somehow.”
Though Sara spoke with such assured conviction, she was inwardly racked with anxiety. What could they do—two forlorn women? And to whom could they turn for help? Miles? He was lame. He was no abler to help than they themselves. And Selwyn was away, out of reach!
“We must get her back,” she repeated doggedly.
“And how, may I ask, Miss Sara?” inquired Jane bitterly. “Be you goin' to run after the motor-car, mayhap?”
For a moment Sara was silent. The sarcastic query had set the spark to the tinder, and now she was thinking rapidly, some semblance of a plan emerging at last from the chaotic turmoil of her mind.
Garth Trent! He could help her! He had a car—Sara did not know its pace, but she was certain Trent could be trusted to get every ounce out of it that was possible. Between them—he and she—they would bring Molly back to safety!
She turned swiftly to Jane Crab.
“Come to the stable and help me put in the Doctor's pony, Jane. You know how, don't you?”
“Yes, miss, I've helped the master many a time. But you ain't going to catch no motor with old Toby, Miss Sara.”