For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—­enjoyment which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the road.  Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the White Swan to meet the coach.  The farmer himself walked down to the inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.

He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a satisfactory explanation of the mystery.  For a robust young woman to disappear in broad day-light and leave no trace behind her was extraordinary.  Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously.

He walked down to the village again, the idea growing steadily all the way.  Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed.  He went by the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage.  Coming to the conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg.

“That’s what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions.  “I thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you.  He’s wonderful deep.  Now, let’s go to work cautious like.  Try and look as if nothing had happened.”

[Illustration:  “I thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you.”]

Mr. Rose tried.

“Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity.  “Get the red out o’ your face and let your eyes go back and don’t look as though you’re going to bite somebody.”

Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless ease sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker’s.  Lawyer Quince was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before him.

“I s’pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with his neighbour’s tidy and methodical habits—­“I s’pose you couldn’t lend me your barrow for half an hour?  The wheel’s off mine.”

Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before.

“You can have it,” he said at last, rising.

Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr. Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the tool-shed.  He tried the door and then went into the house, and even before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was about to happen.  Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose’s countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his waist-coat pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg’s expressive features were twisted into an appearance of rosy appreciation.