Brian
should show concern. If only he knew how the girl had looked at him a
few hours ago!

"Couldn't they tell you in the hotel at what time she went out?" he
enquired.

But no! According to O'Farrell, his sister had not been seen. He had
found her door unlocked, the room empty, and her hat and coat missing.
"She told me she was going to bed," he added. "But the bed hasn't been
disturbed."

"Nor need you be, I think," said I. "Perhaps your sister wants to
frighten you. Children love that sort of thing. It draws attention to
themselves. And sometimes they don't outgrow the fancy."

"Especially Suffragettes and Sinn Feiners," O'Farrell played up to me,
unoffended. "Still, as a brother of one, I'm bound to search, if it
takes all night. A sister's a sister. And mine is quite a valuable
asset." He tossed me this hint with a Puck-like air of a private
understanding established between us. Yes, "Puck-like" describes him: a
Puck at the same time merry and malicious, never to be counted upon!

"I feel that Miss O'Farrell went out to take a walk because she was
restless, and perhaps not very happy," Brian reproached us both.
"Something may have happened--remember we're in the war zone."

"No one in Nancy's likely to forget that!" said I, dully resenting his
defence of the enemy. "Brushing bombs out of their back hair every ten
minutes or so! And listen--don't you hear big guns booming now, along
the front? The German lines are only sixteen kilometres from here."

Brian didn't answer. His brain was pursuing Dierdre O'Farrell, groping
after her through the night. "If she went out before that air raid,
while we were at the Prefet's," he suggested, "she may have had to take
refuge somewhere--she may have been hurt----"

"By Jove!" Puck broke in. "It scares me when you say that. You're a--a
sort--of _prophet_, you know! I must find out what hospitals there
are----"

"We'll go with you to the hotel," Brian promised. "They'll know there
about the hospitals. And if the Prefet's still up, he'll phone for us
officially, I'm sure."

"It's you who are the practical one, after all!" cried O'Farrell. And I
guessed from a sudden uprush of Irish accent that his anxiety had grown
sincere.

We hurried home; Brian seeming almost to guide us, for without his
instinct for the right way we would twice have taken a wrong turning. As
we came into the Place Stanislas, still a pale oasis of moonlight, I saw
standing in front of the hotel