“There’s two of ’em comin’ this way with lanterns, Chimmy,” he whispered, “and I think one of them’s the old one.”
“How long ago was this, Jennings?” said a voice which, although greatly agitated, the master-at-arms recognised as one he had heard before.
“Habout ten minutes, sir, it might ’ave been.”
“Why didn’t you call me before—at once?”
“Hi thought as it was Perdita and that sailor as used to come to see her sometimes, sir.”
Then followed a period occupied by tentative efforts on the gate, during which the master-at-arms was becoming decidedly nervous.
“Thanks to your—conjectures, Jennings, Miss Inglefield has gone off with a—”
Jennings was not enlightened; his efforts on the gate had been unremitting, and just at this critical moment it fell heavily outward. Mr. Inglefield rushed out, holding the lantern the height of his face, and peered down the hill; but the master-at-arms had disappeared in the darkness.
“You go up to the convent as fast as you can post, Jennings,” he said; “I shall wait for you here.”
Jennings departed in double time up the hill, while Mr. Inglefield walked restlessly up and down. Mr. Keegan was anxiously considering the possibility of there being another sled at the convent, which the master-at-arms had overlooked, when Perdita arrived on the scene, breathless, and trouble written in every line of her face.