“Rather late, aren’t you, Brose?” one of them remarked, as he joined them.
“A little,” Stovebridge returned nonchalantly. “It was such a bully morning I took a spin along the river road.”
“Alone?” the other asked slyly.
Stovebridge laughed.
“Well, I happened to be—this time,” he answered, a little self-consciously.
Being very much of a lady’s man, it was rare for him to be unaccompanied.
“How I do love a hog!” drawled one of the fellows who had not spoken. “Why the deuce didn’t you ’phone me? I’ve been sitting here bored to death for two solid hours.”
Stovebridge was looking curiously at a big, red touring car which had just driven up to the entrance.
“Er—I beg pardon, Marston,” he stammered. “What did you say?”
“Really not worth repeating,” returned the other languidly. “You seem to have something on your mind, Brose.”