That figure, however, he could not see. And again he stooped, and inspected the snow beside the gate. No, she had not passed, that was certain; and baffled, and in a most unhappy mood, he raised himself and listened. Above him a squirrel, scared by his approach, was angrily clawing a branch; a robin, drawn by the presence of a man, alighted near him, and hopped nearer. But no rustle of flying skirts, no sound of snapping twigs or falling stones came to him. And, a city man by training, and much at a loss here, he mopped his brow and swore. Every second was precious, and he was losing minutes. He was losing minutes, and learning nothing!
Was she hiding in the wood pending his departure? Or had she doubled back the way she had come, and so escaped, laughing and contemptuous? Or had she passed out by some gate unknown to him? Or climbed the fence? Or was she even now meeting her man in some hiding-place among the hollies, or in some fern-clad retreat out of sight and hearing?
Bishop could not tell. He was wholly at a loss. For a few seconds he entertained the wild notion of beating, the wood for her; but he had not taken a dozen steps before he set it aside, and went back to the gate. Henrietta on the occasion when her bearing had confirmed his suspicions had descended the road to the wood. He would go up the road. And even as he thought of this, and laid his hand on the gate to open it, he heard a footstep coming heavily down the road.
He went to meet the man; a tall, grinning rustic, who bore a sheep on his shoulders with its fore and hind feet in either hand, so that it looked like a gigantic ruff. At a sign from the officer he stopped, but did not lower his burden.
“Meet anybody as you came down the road, my lad?” Bishop asked.
“Noa,” the man drawled.
“Where have you come from? Troutbeck?”
“Ay.”
“You haven’t met a young lady?”
“Noa! Met no soul, master!” the man answered, in the accent not only of Westmoreland, but of truth.