Okewood of the Secret Service [91]
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."
"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 hid 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.
But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was, after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by fainting clear away.
The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew. The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw, hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis and lights and all the attributes of our present day civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.
A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now recognized Marie, the dancer's maid, was descending, a tray in her hand. She placed the tray on the ground without a word, then went up the stairs again and fetched the lamp. She put the lamp down by the tray and, stooping, cut the ropes that fastened Barbara's hands and feet.
"So, Mademoiselle," she said, drawing herself erect with a grunt, "your
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."
"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 hid 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.
But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was, after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by fainting clear away.
The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew. The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw, hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis and lights and all the attributes of our present day civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.
A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now recognized Marie, the dancer's maid, was descending, a tray in her hand. She placed the tray on the ground without a word, then went up the stairs again and fetched the lamp. She put the lamp down by the tray and, stooping, cut the ropes that fastened Barbara's hands and feet.
"So, Mademoiselle," she said, drawing herself erect with a grunt, "your