“Anything damaged?” Orme queried.
“Yes, sir.”
“Much?”
“Two hours’ work, sir.”
“Pshaw!” Orme shut his teeth down hard; Poritol, had he known it, might have felt thankful that he was not near at hand. He turned to Bessie. “How much farther is it?”
The chauffeur answered. “About three miles, sir.”
Three miles over dark country roads—and it was nearly eleven o’clock. He glanced ahead. In the distance a light twinkled.
“Bessie,” he said, “come with me to that farmhouse. We must go on. Or, if you prefer to wait here——”
“I’ll go with you, of course.”
They walked along the road to the farm gate. A cur yelped at their feet as they approached the house, and an old man, coatless and slippered, opened the door, holding an oil lamp high above his head. “Down, Rover! What do you want?” he shouted.