Francis stood still a moment watching him, then ran after him. He caught up with Desmond as the latter reached the bridge.
“Desmond!” he said, pleadingly.
“Oh, go to hell!” retorted the other savagely, whereupon Francis turned his back on him and walked back to the inn.
A car had stopped by the bridge and a man was getting out of it as Desmond moved towards the fen. The next moment he found himself face to face with the Chief.
The Chief’s face was hard and cold and stern. There was a furrow between his eyes which deepened when he recognized Desmond.
“Well,” he said curtly, “and where is my secretary?”
“I don’t know,” Desmond faltered.
“Why are you here, then?” came back in that hard, uncompromising voice.
Desmond was about to reply; but the other checked him.
“I know all you have to say,” he resumed, “but no excuse you can offer can explain away the disappearance of Miss Mackwayte. Your orders were formal to remain at home. You saw fit to disobey them and thereby, maybe, sent Miss Mackwayte to her death. No!” he added, seeing that Desmond was about to expostulate, “I want to hear nothing from you. However obscure the circumstances of Miss Mackwayte’s disappearance may be, one fact is perfectly clear, namely, that she went to the Mill House, as she was ordered and you were not there. For no man or woman in my service ever dares to disobey an order I have given.”