“Lady Clevedon is in the car,” the girl said a little hurriedly. “Will you come and speak to her?”
“Is it a breakdown?” I queried.
“No,” the girl responded, “it is Hartrey. We have lost him.”
But I had no immediate opportunity of questioning her as to the missing Hartrey, or the manner of his going, for “Kitty,” as the old lady had addressed her, had run to the door of the car and pulled it open, to reveal old Lady Clevedon, white of hair, very erect of figure, rather stern of face and with keen, searching eyes that just now were full of wrath.
“Is there anything I can do?” I began.
“You can find Hartrey,” her ladyship responded, not exactly snappily, but quite ungently; she was evidently used to giving orders, and it never occurred to her, apparently, that I would do any other than obey.
“Who is Hartrey?” I demanded.
“He is the chauffeur,” the girl explained. “We sent him with a message to Lepley’s farm—it is over there.”
She pointed vaguely into the darkness, and I followed her gesture with my eyes. But I could see no sign of house or light or living creature—only the darkness and, in the fore-ground, the blurred outlines of masses of rock.
“It should not have taken him ten minutes,” the girl went on, “but he has been gone for more than half an hour.”