(Dearest, I longed to tell him who had said that he had said, etc., etc.; but I'd promised; and one must keep one's promises even to Cats.)
"My dear child," Sir Lionel burst out, "little girls shouldn't do too much independent thinking. It's bad for their health and their guardians' tempers. If my motor had been too full for hilly country, you wouldn't have been the Jonah to cast into the sea. Nick would have been fed to the whales. But the idea was ridiculous—ridiculous!"
I was so happy, I didn't even want to defend myself. I understood most of the mystery now. I suppose it's a compliment to a girl if a woman of the world wants to get rid of her. Anyhow, I consoled myself for hours of misery by laying that flattering unction to my soul.
If I had liked, I could have unravelled the whole tangle for Sir Lionel's still puzzled mind; but if I had done so, I should have been returning cat-claw for cat-claw; so I pretended to be "lost in it, my lord"; and, indeed, it was true that I couldn't understand why the Tyndals had failed me.
Sir Lionel explained that, just before reaching Bideford the silencer worked loose, and so got upon Mrs. Norton's nerves that Apollo was stopped in the pouring rain for Young Nick to right the wrong. As if to prove the truth of the proverb, "the more haste the less speed," in his hurry poor Buddha burnt his hand. While he was wringing it like a distracted goblin, along came the Tyndal car, which had left Tintagel about half an hour after Apollo. To Sir Lionel's amazement, no me! Questions on his part; according to him, idiotic answers on the part of the Tyndals. He had thought, of course, I was going with them. They had thought that I'd changed my mind, and gone earlier with him. Everybody confused, apologetic, repeating the same silly excuses over and over, three or four times. Nobody showing the slightest sign of having a remnant of common sense.
"By Jove! I could have cheerfully executed the lot of them—all but the boy, who seemed to have some glimmerings of sanity," grumbled Sir Lionel. "He had wanted to run up and knock at your door, to make sure you really had gone; but somebody—he began to say who, when Mrs. Tyndal stepped on his foot—forbade him to do it."
I think I can guess who the somebody was, can't you? Though I don't see what arguments she can have used to persuade the really good-natured Tyndals to abandon me.
The rest of the story is, that when Sir Lionel found I had been left behind, he said he would at once turn back and fetch me. Judging from one or two things he let slip inadvertently, I fancy he wanted Emily to come with him, but she drew the line at chaperoning in wet weather, and missing her tea. She proposed telegraphing for me to come on by rail. Sir Lionel wouldn't hear of my making such a journey unaccompanied—me, a simple little French schoolgirl who had never travelled alone in her life! Then Mrs. Senter, kind creature, volunteered to be his companion, if he must return; but Sir Lionel firmly refused the unselfish offer, saying he wouldn't for the world put her to so much unnecessary trouble. Nick he would have brought, but the unfortunate brown image was suffering so much pain from his burnt hand, that the only humane thing to do was to drive him to a doctor's—which was exactly what Sir Lionel did. Rooms were already engaged at the Royal Hotel; he dumped out Emily, Mrs. Senter, and the luggage there; left Young Nick having his hand treated; and without so much as crossing the threshold of the hotel, turned Apollo's bright bonnet toward Tintagel and me. Rain was coming down in floods. He said nothing about that, but I knew. The storm drew down twilight like the lid of a box; the road was deep in mud; everything that could happen to delay the car did happen; once Sir Lionel had to mend a tire himself, and almost wished he hadn't made Young Nick disgorge the stolen tool; he ought to have arrived at Tintagel an hour before he did; but here he was at last. And would I have a sandwich, and then start, or would I prefer to wait for dinner?
I snatched at the sandwich idea, and his eye brightened. He said he only looked wet, for everything was waterproof, and he was "right as rain"—which sounded too appropriate to be comfortable.
We ate as the Israelites of old in Passover days, figuratively with our staves in our hands; at least, I had a bag in mine, and Sir Lionel a road book, because he'd lost his way once in his haste, and didn't want to make further mistakes.