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Only a few days before had he yielded up his temporary position as chief constable, and had spent almost every hour since in conference with Rhodo. What he had planned would never be known to his daughter now. It was Rhodo himself who had found his master with head bowed before the Master of all men.
To her he had been more than father; he had been a patriarch, a leader, a viking, capable of the fury of a Scythian lord, but with the tenderness of a peasant father to his first child. "My Ry! My father! Oh, my Ry of Rys!" she kept murmuring to herself. On either side of her, but a few feet behind, stood Rhodo and Ingolby. Presently in a low, firm voice Rhodo spoke.
Now, as he looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a double row of teeth, not one of which was imperfect, though he was seventy years of age. "Would you like to come?" he asked. "Would you like to come home to the Ry?" With a cry she flung herself upon him. "Rhodo! Rhodo!" she exclaimed, and now the tears broke forth, and her body shook with sobs.
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