The first person Sara encountered on her return to Sunnyside was Jane Crab, unmistakably bursting to impart some news.

“The doctor's going away, miss,” she announced, flinging her bombshell without preliminary.

“Going away?” Sara's surprise was entirely gratifying, and Jane continued volubly—

“Yes, miss. A telegram came for him early in the afternoon, while he was out on his rounds, asking him to go to a friend who is lying at death's door, as you may say. And please, miss, Dr. Selwyn said he would be glad to see you as soon as you came in.”

“Very well, I'll go to him at once. Where is Miss Molly? Has she come back yet?”

“Come and gone again, miss. The doctor asked her to send off a wire for him.”

“I see.” Sara nodded somewhat abstractly. She was still wondering confusedly why Molly had failed to put in any appearance at Greenacres. “What time did she come in?”

“About a quarter of an hour ago, miss. She missed the early train back from Oldhampton.”

Sara's instant feeling of relief was tempered by a mild element of self-reproach. She had been agitating herself about nothing—allowing her uneasiness about Molly to become a perfect obsession, leading her into the wildest imaginings. Here had she been disquieting herself the entire afternoon because Molly had not turned up as arranged, and after all, the simple, commonplace explanation of the matter was that she had missed her train!

Smiling over the groundlessness of her fears, Sara hastened away to Selwyn's study, and found him, seated at his desk, scribbling some hurried motes concerning various cases among his patients for the enlightenment of the medical man who was taking charge of the practice during his absence.

“Oh, there you are, Sara!” he exclaimed, laying down his pen as she entered. “I'm glad you have come back before I go. I'm off in half-an-hour. Did Jane tell you?”

“Yes. I'm very sorry your friend is so ill.”

Selwyn's face clouded over.

“I'd like to see him again,” he answered simply. “We haven't met for some years—not since my wife's health brought me to Monkshaven—but we were good pals at one time, he and I. Luckily, I've been able to arrange with Dr. Mitchell to include my patients in his round, and if you'll take charge of everything here at home, Sara, I shall have nothing to worry about while I'm away.”

“Of course I will. It's very nice of you to entrust your family to my care so confidently.”

“Quite confidently,” he replied. “I'm not afraid of anything going wrong if you're at the helm.”

“How long do you expect to be away?” asked Sara presently.

“A couple of days at the outside. I hope to get back the day after to-morrow.”

Denuded of Selwyn's big, kindly presence, the house seemed curiously silent. Even Jane Crab appeared to feel the effect of his absence, and strove less forcefully with her pots and pans—which undoubtedly made for an increase of peace and quiet—while Molly was frankly depressed, stealing restlessly in and out of the rooms like some haunting shadow.

“What on earth's the matter with you?” Sara asked her laughingly. “Hasn't your father ever been away from home before? You're wandering about like an uneasy spirit!”

“I am an uneasy spirit,” responded Molly bluntly. “I feel as though I'd a cold coming on, and I always like Dad to doctor me when I'm ill.”

“I can doctor a cold,” affirmed Sara briskly. “Put your feet in hot water and mustard to-night and stay in bed to-morrow.”

Molly considered the proposed remedies in silence.

“Perhaps I will stay in bed to-morrow,” she said, at last, reluctantly. “Should you mind? We were going down to see the Lavender Lady, you remember.”

“I'll go alone. Anyway”—smiling—“if you're safely tucked up in bed, I shall know you're not getting into any mischief while Doctor Dick's away! But very likely the hot water and mustard will put you all right.”

“Perhaps it will,” agreed Molly hopefully.

The next morning, however, found her in bed, snuffling and complaining of headache, and pathetically resigned to the idea of spending the day between the sheets. Obviously she was in no fit state to inflict her company on other people, so, in the afternoon, after settling her comfortably with a new novel and a box of cigarettes at her bedside, Sara took her solitary way to Rose Cottage.

There she found Garth Trent, sitting beside Herrick's couch and deep in an enthusiastic discussion of amateur photography. But, immediately on her entrance, the eager, interested expression died out of his face, and very shortly after tea he made his farewells, nor could any soft blandishments on the part of the Lavender Lady prevail upon him to remain longer.

Sara felt hurt and resentful. Since the day of the expedition to Devil's Hood Island, Trent had punctiliously avoided being in her company whenever circumstances would permit him to do so, and she was perfectly aware that it was her presence at Rose Cottage which was responsible for his early departure this afternoon.

A gleam of anger flickered in the black depths of her eyes as he shook hands.

“I'm sorry I've driven you away,” she flashed at him beneath her breath, with a bitterness akin to his own. He made no answer, merely releasing her hand rather quickly, as though something in her words had flicked him on the raw.

“What a pity Mr. Trent had to leave so soon,” remarked Miss Lavinia, with innocent regret, when he had gone. “I'm afraid we shall never persuade him to be really sociable, poor dear man! He seems a little moody to-day, don't you think?”—hesitating delicately.

“He's a bore!” burst out Sara succinctly.

Miles shook his head.

“No, I don't think that,” he said. “But he's a very sick man. In my opinion, Trent's had his soul badly mauled at some time or other.”

“He needn't advertise the fact, then,” retorted Sara, unappeased. “We all get our share of ill-luck. Garth behaves as if he had the monopoly.”

“There are some scars which can't be hidden,” replied Miles quietly.

Sara smiled a little. There was never any evading Herrick's broad tolerance of human nature.

It was nearly an hour later when at last she took her way homewards, carrying in her heart, in spite of herself, something of the gentle serenity that seemed to be a part of the very atmosphere at Rose Cottage.

Outside, the calm and fragrance of a June evening awaited her. Little, delicate, sweet-smelling airs floated over the tops of the hedges from the fields beyond, and now and then a few stray notes of a blackbird's song stole out from a plantation near at hand, breaking off suddenly and dying down into drowsy, contented little cluckings and twitterings.

Across the bay the sun was dipping towards the horizon, flinging along the face of the waters great shafts of lambent gold and orange, that split into a thousand particles of shimmering light as the ripples caught them up and played with them, and finally tossed them back again to the sun from the shining curve of a wave's sleek side.

It was all very tranquil and pleasant, and Sara strolled leisurely along, soothed into a half-waking dream by the peaceful influences of the moment. Even the manifold perplexities and tangles of life seemed to recede and diminish in importance at the touch of old Mother Nature's comforting hand. After all, there was much, very much, that was beautiful and pleasant still left to enjoy.

It is generally at moments like these, when we are sinking into a placid quiescence of endurance, that Fate sees fit to prod us into a more active frame of mind.

In this particular instance destiny manifested itself in the unassuming form of Black Brady, who slid suddenly down from the roadside hedge, amid a crackling of branches and rattle of rubble, and appeared in front of Sara's astonished eyes just as she was nearing home.

“Beg pardon, miss”—Brady tugged at a forelock of curly black hair—“I was just on me way to your place.”

“To Sunnyside? Why, is Mrs. Brady ill again?” asked Sara kindly.

“No, miss, thank you, she's doing nicely.” He paused a moment as though at a loss how to continue. Then he burst out: “It's about Miss Molly—the doctor bein' away and all.”

“About Miss Molly?” Sara felt a sudden clutch at her heart. “What do you mean? Quick, Brady, what is it?”

“Well, miss, I've just seed 'er go off 'long o' Mr. Kent in his big motor-car. They took the London road, and”—here Brady shuffled his feet with much embarrassment—“seein' as Mr. Kent's a married man, I'll be bound he's up to no good wi' Miss Molly.”

Sara could have stamped with vexation. The little fool—oh! The utter little fool—to go off joy-riding in an evening like that! A break-down of any kind, with a consequent delay in returning, and all Monkshaven would be buzzing with the tale!

For the moment, however, there was nothing to be done except to put Black Brady in his place and pray for Molly's speedy return.

“Well, Brady,” she said coldly, “I imagine Mr. Kent's a good enough driver to bring Miss Selwyn back safely. I don't think there's anything to worry about.”

Brady stared at her out of his sullen eyes.

“You haven't understood, miss,” he said doggedly. “Mr. Kent isn't for bringing Miss Molly back again. They'd their luggage along wi' 'em in the car, and Mr. Kent, he stopped at the 'Cliff' to have the tank filled up and took a matter of another half-dozen cans o' petrol with 'im.”

In an instant the whole dreadful significance of the thing leaped into Sara's mind. Molly had bolted—run away with Lester Kent!

It was easy enough now, in the flashlight kindled by Brady's slow, inexorable summing up of detail, to see the drift of recent happenings, the meaning of each small, disconcerting fact that added a fresh link to the chain of probability.

Molly's unwonted secretiveness; her strange, uncertain moods; her embarrassment at finding she was expected at Greenacres when she had presumably agreed to meet Lester Kent in Oldhampton; and, last of all, the sudden “cold” which had developed coincidentally with her father's absence from home and which had secured her freedom from any kind of supervision for the afternoon. And the opportunity of clinching arrangements—probably already planned and dependent only on a convenient moment—had been provided by her errand to the post office to send off her father's telegram—it being as easy to send two telegrams as one.

The colour ebbed slowly from Sara's face as full realization dawned upon her, and she swayed a little where she stood. With rough kindliness Brady stretched out a grimy hand and steadied her.

“'Ere, don't' take on, miss. They won't get very far. I didn't, so to speak, fill the petrol tank”—with a grin—“and there ain't more than two o' they cans I slipped aboard the car as 'olds more'n air. The rest was empties”—the grin widened enjoyably—“which I shoved in well to the back. Mr. Kent won't travel eighty miles afore 'e calls a 'alt, I reckon.”

Sara looked at Brady's cunning, kindly face almost with affection.

“Why did you do that?” she asked swiftly.

“I've owed Mr. Lester Kent summat these three years,” he answered complacently. “And I never forgets to pay back. I owed you summat, too, Miss Tennant. I haven't forgot how you spoke up for me when I was catched poachin'.”

Sara held out her hand to him impulsively, and Brady sheepishly extended his own grubby paw to meet it.

“You've more than paid me back, Brady,” she said warmly. “Thank you.”

Turning away, she hurried up the road, leaving Brady staring alternately at his right hand and at her receding figure.

“She's rare gentry, is Miss Tennant,” he remarked with conviction, and then slouched off to drink himself blind at “The Jolly Sailorman.” Black Brady was, after all, only an inexplicable bundle of good and bad impulses—very much like his betters.

Arrived at the house, Sara fled breathlessly upstairs to Molly's room. Jane Crab was standing in the middle of it, staring dazedly at all the evidences of a hasty departure which surrounded her—an overturned chair here, an empty hat-box there, drawers pulled out, and clothes tossed heedlessly about in every direction. In her hand she held a chemist's parcel, neatly sealed and labeled; she was twisting it round and round in her trembling, gnarled old fingers.

At the sound of Sara's entrance, she turned with an exclamation of relief.

“Oh, Miss Sara! I'm main glad you've come! Whatever's happened? Miss Molly was here in bed not three parts of an hour ago!” Then, her boot-button eyes still roving round the room, she made a sudden dart towards the dressing-table. “Here, miss, 'tis a note she's left for you!” she exclaimed, snatching it up and thrusting it into Sara's hands.

Written in Molly's big, sprawling, childish hand, the note was a pathetic mixture of confession and apology—

“I feel a perfect pig, Sara mine, leaving you behind to face Father, but it was my only chance of getting away, as I know Dad would have refused to let me marry for years and years. He never will realize that I'm grown-up. And Lester and I couldn't wait all that time.

“I felt an awful fraud last night, letting you fuss over my supposed 'cold,' you dear thing. Do forgive me. And you must come and stay with us the minute we get back from our honeymoon. We are to be married to-morrow morning. “—MOLLY.

“P.S.—Don't worry—it's all quite proper and respectable. I'm to go straight to the house of one of Lester's sisters in London.

“P.P.S.—I'm frantically happy.”

Sara's eyes were wet when she finished the perusal of the hastily scribbled letter. “We are to be married to-morrow morning!” The blind, pathetic confidence of it! And if Black Brady had spoken the truth, if Lester Kent were already a married man, to-morrow morning would convert the trusting, wayward baby of a woman, with her adorable inconsistencies and her big, generous heart, into something Sara dared not contemplate. The thought of the look in those brown-gold eyes, when Molly should know the truth, brought a lump into her throat.

She turned to Jane Crab.

“Listen to me, Jane,” she said tersely. “Miss Molly's run away with Mr. Lester Kent. She thinks he's going to marry her. But he can't—he's married already——”

“Sakes alive!” Just that one brief exclamation, and then suddenly Jane's lower lip began to work convulsively, and two tears squeezed themselves out of her little eyes, and her whole face puckered up like a baby's.

Sara caught her by the arm and shook her.

“Don't cry!” she said vehemently. “You haven't time! We've got to save her—we've got to get her back before any one knows. Do you understand? Stop crying at once!”

Jane reacted promptly to the fierce imperative, and sniffingly choked back her tears. Suddenly her eyes fell on the little package from the chemist which she still held clutched in her hand.

“The artfulness of her!” she ejaculated indignantly. “Asking me to go along to the chemist's and bring her back some aspirin for her headache! And me, like a fool, suspecting nothing, off I goes! There's the stuff!”—viciously flinging the chemist's parcel on to the floor. “Eh! Miss Molly'll have more than a headache to face, I'm thinking!”

“But she mustn't, Jane! We've got to get her back, somehow.”

Though Sara spoke with such assured conviction, she was inwardly racked with anxiety. What could they do—two forlorn women? And to whom could they turn for help? Miles? He was lame. He was no abler to help than they themselves. And Selwyn was away, out of reach!

“We must get her back,” she repeated doggedly.

“And how, may I ask, Miss Sara?” inquired Jane bitterly. “Be you goin' to run after the motor-car, mayhap?”

For a moment Sara was silent. The sarcastic query had set the spark to the tinder, and now she was thinking rapidly, some semblance of a plan emerging at last from the chaotic turmoil of her mind.

Garth Trent! He could help her! He had a car—Sara did not know its pace, but she was certain Trent could be trusted to get every ounce out of it that was possible. Between them—he and she—they would bring Molly back to safety!

She turned swiftly to Jane Crab.

“Come to the stable and help me put in the Doctor's pony, Jane. You know how, don't you?”

“Yes, miss, I've helped the master many a time. But you ain't going to catch no motor with old Toby, Miss Sara.”

“No, I don't expect to. I'm gong to drive across to Far End. Mr. Trent will help us. Don't worry, Jane”—as the two made their way to the stable and Jane strangled a sob—“we'll bring Miss Molly back. And, listen! Mrs. Selwyn isn't to hear a word of this. Do you understand? If she asks you anything, tell her that Miss Molly and I are dining out. That'll be true enough, too,” added Sara grimly, “if we dine at all!”

Jane sniffed, and swallowed loudly.

“Yes, miss,” she said submissively. “You and Miss Molly are dining out. I won't forget.”