Rich did not beat about his business.
“This is a hanging job for any fool who meddles. We are after old Dale’s daughter.”
“Tut, man! She has been in France these seven years.”
“That is a good bit of brag, John Falconer. Come, now; I have no wish to ride the high horse; the girl has been here; let us have the truth.”
Falconer told his lie with square-faced hardihood.
“I have not seen Mellis Dale for seven years. You can search the house.”
Rich had it searched to salve his conscience. His men found nothing—not even the stable boy, who was shut up in the venison hutch in a dark corner of the larder, and far too much in terror of John Falconer to betray himself.
Peter Rich drank ale while his men were at work. He took his failure philosophically, and got back into the saddle.
“It has saved me pulling you by the beard, John Falconer.”
“My beard may be at your service—some day.”