THE YELLOW DOVE
“I say, stop it,” she heard him laugh. “You’re ticklin’.”
“Shut up, d—n you,” said the tall man, with a scowl.
“Right-o!” said Cyril, cheerfully. “But you’re wastin’ time.”
They found that out in a while and the leader of the men straightened. Suddenly he gave a sound of triumph.
“The girl!” he cried and, rushing to the limousine, threw open the door.
“Gone!” he shouted excitedly. “She can’t be far. Find her.”
He rushed around the rear wheels of the limousine and for the first time spied the gate in the hedge.
“Tricked, by God! In after her, some of you.”
“It won’t do a bit of good,” remarked Cyril. He was sitting in the dirt of the middle of the road near the front wheels of the machines. “She doesn’t smoke, o’ chap. Bad taste, I call it, gettin’ a lady mixed up in a hunt for cigarettes. Besides she’s almost home by this. The house isn’t far. She lives there, you know.”
In her tree Doris trembled. She was well screened by the branches and she heard the crackle of footsteps in the dry leaves as the searchers beat the bushes below her, but they passed on, following the path toward the house. As the sounds diminished in the distance she saw Cyril still seated on the ground leaning against the front wheels of the touring-car while he argued and cajoled the men nearest him. Helping himself by a wheel as he arose he faced the tall man who had come up waving his revolver and uttering wild threats.
“It won’t help matters calling me a lot of names,” said Cyril, brushing the dust from his clothes. “You
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