The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake by Patricia Veryan Page B

But—how dreadful it would be if he really is not the villain who has taken our dear Alice. He is quite ruined, you know, and I think—”
    Apothecary Bright returned at that point, followed by Rufus Prior, who looked sheepish and untidy.
    Cecily whispered, “And I think you are a naughty flirt, Grandmama!”
    *   *   *
    The snow was almost gone now, but Broderick’s search around the cottage had yielded no sign of Adair’s emerald pin. “Well, I tried, old boy,” he murmured, poking about the roots of a rosebush.
    A hard jab in his back told him he had been overheard. He turned quickly and came nose-to-muzzle with a hunting rifle aimed by a ferocious-looking gentleman with bristling red eyebrows. “I say now,” protested Broderick. “No need for hostilities, sir! I’m only looking—”
    â€œWhat you are is trespassing,” growled the ferocious gentleman. “Who in the devil are you? And what are you looking at on my son’s property?”
    There were six of them. Not fighting men, but well able to make things uncomfortable for him; noting which, Broderick said with his engaging smile, “Ah, then you will be Mr. Alfred Prior. I’ve heard of you, sir, and—”
    â€œAll England has heard of me since my child was stolen,” snapped Prior. “Why are you lurking about? If I thought you were involved in the business—”
    â€œNot lurking, sir,” said Broderick earnestly. “Looking. At the birds, sir.”
    Grins were exchanged by the members of the search party.
    Prior said incredulously, “Looking—at the birds? Are you daft, man?”
    â€œI am a Professor of Ornithology,” lied Broderick. “I am bird-watching, Mr. Prior. I’m dashed certain that is a fieldfare. Do you see the little chap in that tree?”
    â€œHe were lookin’ down—not up, sir,” offered one of the men, with what Broderick judged a vindictive smirk.
    â€œJust so. Thought I saw an egg. I know that sounds unlikely, at this time of the year, but the entire business is unlikely. That a pair of fieldfares should be here all alone, I mean. They usually travel in flocks, you see. Large flocks, which are very talkative. Shy little brutes around people, though, and why—”
    â€œWhy should I believe one word of that gibberish?” demanded Mr. Prior. “What’s more, you don’t look like a professor to me. Where are your notebooks, or your glass?”
    â€œAt my home. In Oxford. I did not come here to look for fieldfares, I do assure you, but when I spotted the little fellow, I was bound to—”
    Prior’s expression was extremely ominous and Broderick said hurriedly, “Actually, I had a theory about—about your daughter, sir. It occurred to me, you see, that if Colonel Adair spoke the truth and he did not abduct the lady, she might be still in the…” He began to back away uneasily. “… in the vicinity, or—or there might be some—er, sign … as it were.”
    â€œWhat it is—you’re one of those triple-curst busybody newspaper writers,” roared Mr. Prior, swinging up the rifle, which had sagged during this exchange. “Get him, men!”
    Relying heavily on the unlikelihood that even so belligerent an individual would actually shoot a newspaper writer, Tobias Broderick took to his heels and ran like a deer. Coming in sight of his big bay horse, he could hear hoofbeats close behind him and he vaulted into the saddle. Quadrille had been named for what Broderick termed “his many fancy steps,” but his caperings were the product of temper rather than grace. To be sprung upon irked him so that he went into a spin, a buck, and several savage kicks. Luckily, his antics alarmed the mounts of Mr. Prior’s retainers, and once he started to run, there was no coming up with him.
    As the uproar faded behind