Things were no better at breakfast next morning.
Mabel said, “Just fancy, Mrs. Smith in a sable stole at church last Sunday, and I know for a fact that he only gets three-ten. If it was real sable it was wicked, and if it was not she was acting a lie.”
Luke smote the table once with his clenched fist, spilt his tea, and resumed his newspaper.
“Further from Mabel,” he thought, as he mounted his bike. “Every day, in every way, I’m getting further and further.”
About two miles from Dilborough he became suddenly aware that two motor-cars were approaching him. They were being driven abreast at racing speed, and occupied the whole of the road. For one moment Luke thought of remaining where he was, and causing Mabel to be a widow. Then, murmuring to himself, “Safety first,” he ran up the grassy slope at the side of the road and fell off. Both the cars pulled up. A man’s voice sang out cheerily: “Hallo, Sharper. Hallo, hallo. Who gave you leave to dismount?”
Luke recognized the voice. One of the cars was driven by Lord Tyburn, and the other by his wife, Jona.
Luke hurriedly drove in a peg to mark the spot, and came down into the road again.
“How’s yourself?” said Lord Tyburn. “We’ve been away for two years. Timbuctoo, Margate. All over the place. Only got back to Gallows last night.”
Luke shook hands with him and with Jona.