"Stay there!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Don't move. I will come back."
Half a dozen horsemen were coming along the lane at steeplechase pace.
Lord Runton, on his wonderful black horse, which no man before had ever
seen him gallop save across the softest of country, pulled up outside
the gate.
"Seen a motor go by, Duncombe?" he called out.
Duncombe nodded.
"Rather!" he answered. "Fielding and Miss Fielding in it. Going like
Hell!"
Runton waved his companions on, and leaned down to Duncombe.
"Beastly unpleasant thing happened, Duncombe," he said. "Fielding and
his daughter have bolted. Fielding seems to have half killed a messenger
who came down from London to see Von Rothe, and stolen some papers. Fact
of the matter is he's not Fielding at all--and as for the girl! Lord
knows who she is. Sorry for you, Duncombe. Hope you weren't very hard
hit!"
He gathered up his reins.
"We've sent telegrams everywhere," he said, "but the beast has cut the
telephone, and Von Rothe blasphemes if we talk about the police. It's a
queer business."
He rode off. Duncombe returned where the girl was standing. She was
clutching at the branches of the shrub as though prostrate with fear,
but at his return she straightened herself.
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