“And it’s my painful duty to face the music, and deliver the fatal letter.”
Sir Richard gave a long whistle.
“Yes; it’s a job I don’t half fancy. Well, I must be getting a move on—the car is just outside.” Then, holding out his hand, “I’m awfully glad to have seen you, Uncle Dick, and looking so fit.”
“I say, Owen,” suddenly taking him by the arm and leading him aside, “I’ve had enough of this.”
His nephew stared at him interrogatively.
“Let’s cry quits—time’s up—all but a few weeks! You have done uncommonly well, and I was an old idiot.”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. I believe it was quite a sound idea; but, since you’ve given me the word, I must confess I’m not sorry it’s finished.”
“And I’ll tell you what, my boy—you gave me a jolly good fright the time Masham was killed.”
“Nothing to my own fright when the car turned over; but, I say, I must be off to Hillstan—it’s thirty miles away—and do my errand. Where shall I find you when I come back? I’m fairly safe to get the kick out, and I expect I’ll have to walk to our nearest drivelling little station.”
“Look here, Owen, I’ll hire a car. I’ll telephone now, and go with you, and this other can fetch us back—we’ll have a good talk.”