“I suppose she had a break-down in the taxi; I only know that she left here at half-past six, looking just as usual. She refused to borrow an umbrella. And now I must really refer you to my husband. You can't miss the links.”
Mr. Deane excused himself stiffly for the intrusion, and let himself follow the road to the nearest telephone booth, at a pace that began with Mr. Deane's leisurely stride, and finished up in Pointer's best seven-leagued style. The number of the Sheens' golf club was in use. He requested to be rung up when it was free, and passed the time in entering notes in his little book. When he was put through he asked for Major Thompson.
“He's out on the links,” replied a voice.
“Mrs. Thompson isn't quite sure if he got her message clearly.” He heard an impatient tongue click.
“As I just explained to the lady, sir, the Major has absolutely forbidden any messages to be sent on to the links. I'm very sorry, sir.”
Pointer was not.
“I see. Mrs. Thompson couldn't quite make out your explanation. I'll make it clear to her.” And Mr. Deane, smiling cheerfully, took a bus to the club, which presented the usual picture of an August desert. He announced that he was waiting for the Major, and ordered tea on the balcony. Towards the close of his leisurely meal two figures clattered up the steps. A steward approached the shorter and indicated the visitor. The man came forward.
“I'm Major Thompson. You wish to see me? Shall I have tea at your table, or will it wait till afterwards? Tea I must have.”
Mr. Deane strongly supported the idea of tea at his table. He produced his card and spoke of his client's accident.
“I've just come from Mrs. Thompson; she requested me to see you.” There was no doubt as to Major Thompson's embarrassed bewilderment.