“Chief...” Desmond broke in, but again that inexorable voice interposed.
“I will hear nothing from you,” said the Chief, “it is a rule of mine never to interfere with my men in their work or to see them until their mission has been successfully completed. When you have found Miss Mackwayte I will hear you but not before!”
Desmond drew himself up.
“In that case, sir,” he said stiffly, “I will bid you good morning. And I trust you will hear from me very soon again!”
He walked over to one of the cars waiting outside the inn, spoke a word to the driver and got in. The driver started the engine and presently the car was bumping slowly along the muddy track to the main road.
The Chief stood looking after him.
“Well,” he murmured to himself. “I soaked it into him pretty hard; but he took it like a brick. I do believe he’ll find her yet!”
He shook his head sagely and continued on his way across the yard.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. MALPLAQUET GOES DOWN TO THE CELLAR
In the age of chivalry woman must have been built of sterner stuff than the girl of to-day. At least, we read in medieval romance of fair ladies who, after being knocked down by a masterful suitor and carried off across his saddle bow thirty or forty miles, are yet able to appear, cold but radiantly beautiful, at the midnight wedding and the subsequent marriage feast.