“I think we shall be safe from interruption here,” she said, with a smile of encouragement; and then she added, “Did any one send you?”
Although the master-at-arms thought the question a trifle strange, he could not but admit that it was pertinent.
“Dennis Keegan sent me, miss,” he replied.
“Dennis Keegan! And you wish to see me—are you sure?”
There was such an evident note of disappointment in this that the master-at-arms was more puzzled than ever. Was it possible that Mr. Pennington had not told her about Dennis?
“Dennis is the man who is actin’ for Mr. Pennington, you know, miss—sorter under his orders.”
But Miss Inglefield, greatly to his discomfiture, did not seem to grasp the situation in the least.
“Who are you?” she demanded, with a touch of impatience.
“I’m the master-at-arms of the Denver, miss,” he answered, in a tone of injured dignity.
“But the orders you speak of, what are they? I do not quite understand.”