Of course, he had no right to call me his "dear." I never heard of it being done by the best "forty-fourth cousins." But as I was asking a favour of him, for Terry Burns' sake I let it pass.
These Americans, especially ex-cowboy ones, do seem to act with lightning rapidity. I suppose it comes from having to lasso creatures while going at cinema speed, or else getting out of their way at the same rate of progress! I expected to hear next morning at earliest, but that evening, just before shutting-up time for post offices, my 'phone bell rang. Jim Courtenaye was at the other end, talking from the Abbey.
"Lord and Lady Scarlett are living at Dun Moat," he said, "with their venomous little brute of a boy; and they must be dashed hard up, because they have only one servant in their enormous house, and a single gardener on a place that needs a dozen. But it seems that Scarlett has refused several big offers both to sell and let. Heaven knows why. Perhaps the man's mad. Anyhow, that's all I can tell you at present. They say it's no good hoping Scarlett will part. But I might find out why he won't, if that's any use."
"It isn't," I answered. "But thanks, all the same. How did you get hold of this information so soon?"
"Very simply," said Jim. "I ran over to the nearest town, Dawlish, in the car, and had a pow-wow with an estate agent, as if I were wanting the house myself. I'm just back."
"You really are good!" I exclaimed, rather grudgingly, for Grandmother and I always suffered in changing our opinions of people, as snakes must suffer when they change their skins.
"I'd do a lot more than that for you, you know!" he said.
I did know. He had already done more—much more. But my only response was to ring off. That was safest!
Next morning Terry Burns and I took the first train to Devonshire, and at Dawlish hired a taxi for Dun Moat, which is about twelve miles from there.
We were going to beard the Scarlett lion in his den!