‘Thank you. I perfectly understand,’ said Richard. ‘Miss Craig, I hope, is fully recovered?’
‘I was to tell ye the motor-car——’
Thinking that this extraordinary Irishwoman was scarcely in full possession of her wits that morning, Richard turned away, and proceeded to the shed where the motor-cars were kept. The Panhard, he found, was ready for action, its petrol-tank duly filled, its bearings oiled, its brasswork polished. He sprang aboard and set off down the boreen. As he passed the house, gazing at it, one of the drawn blinds on the first-floor seemed to twitch aside and then fall straight again. Or was it his imagination?
He turned into Watling Street, and then, on the slope, set the car to its best pace. He reached the valley in a whirl of dust at a speed of forty miles an hour. The great road stretched invitingly ahead. His spirits rose. He seemed to recover somewhat from the influence of the mysteries of Queen’s Farm.
‘I’ll chuck it,’ he shouted to himself above the noise of the flying car—‘that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go and tell Lord Dolmer this very morning that I can’t do anything, and prefer to waste no more time on the affair.’
After that he laughed, also to himself, and swerved the car neatly to avoid half a brick which lay in the middle of the road. It was at that moment that he perceived, some distance in front, his friend Mr. Puddephatt. Mr. Puddephatt was apparently walking to Dunstable. Richard overtook him and drew up.
‘Let me give you a lift,’ said Richard.
