"I'm going to put up at the pub. Tomorrow I'll see Mr. Richard Fleet and Aunt Cicely, and as for grandmother: this afternoon, I think."
"No! You mustn't! Not this afternoon!"
He gripped her shoulders. "If I could only tell you, Jenny, how much—"
"Oi!" said the voice of Sir Henry Merrivale.
H.M. was standing very close to them. How long he had been there Martin could not tell, but it might have been a long time. H.M.'s hat was in his hand, and his expression was malevolent Martin bumped back to reality.
"Well? Did you see the dock?"
"Uh-huh. I saw it. And it seems my first wild and wool-gatherin' notion," here H.M. massaged his big bald head, "is no more use than a busted kite on a calm day. But there's got to be some explanation! Or else—" With no change he added: "So you're putting up at the pub, son?"
"You listened?"
"I'm the old man," said H.M., austerely tapping himself on the chest as though this constituted all necessary explanation. "And I'm a bit glad you are stayin’ there, if there's room for you. Masters and I will be there too."
Somewhere, noiselessly, an alarm-bell rang.