It was Thursday, the Station holiday. A capital paper-chase had recently engaged the entire community; the pace had been unusually severe; the obstacles large and formidable—especially the notorious Log Jump—and casualties were not a few. Shafto and FitzGerald, on hot and heaving horses, had only halted for a moment at the hospitable “Finish,” where refreshments were being served, as care for their precious steeds was taking them and their animals home. After an unusually long silence FitzGerald exclaimed, apropos of nothing in particular:
“So—sits the wind in that quarter?”
Shafto turned his head and met a pair of knowing Irish eyes.
“That quarter!” repeated FitzGerald, indicating the red-tiled roof of the Krausses’ bungalow, where it peeped out from amid a solid mass of palms and bamboos.
“I haven’t the remotest idea what you are driving at,” said Shafto impatiently. “Is it a bit of dialogue in the play you are rehearsing?”
“No, me boy, that is fiction—this is fact! In my official capacity I am bound to take notes, and within the last week I have twice met you early of a morning riding with Miss Leigh—no third party visible to the naked eye. In fact, you were there before the rest of the crowd—and, of course, the early bird gets the worm!”
“And which is the worm—Miss Leigh or I?”
“Oh yes, you may try to laugh it off, but there’s some reason for these early tête-à-têtes. The reason is as plain as the stick in my hand—no, I beg its pardon, the reason is uncommonly pretty.”
“FitzGerald, you are talking most blatant bosh.”
“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, and, let me tell you, you’re not the only string to the lady’s bow; she has as many as a harp! There’s Fotheringay, the A.D.C.; there’s Captain Howe; there’s Bernhard——”