“‘A fine day, Sir Charles, but inclined to blow up squally,’ says I.
“Then he turns his face away and inquires, ‘If it’s not troubling you, can I see your son this morning?’
“‘He went to London early,’ says I.
“He puts his hand to his throat quickly, as if he were choking. Then he asks huskily, still not looking at me, ‘Did he go alone?’
“‘That, Sir Charles, is more than I can say.’
“‘Quite right. Quite right.’ And he speaks so quickly that he startles me.
“Then he turns round, trying to smile, and shows me a face all old and pale. ‘A very fine day for someone; but it’s true what you say, it’ll blow up squally later.’
“And with that he leaves me, raising his hat, and rides away.”
“And you knew all the time?” I ask.
“We both knew all the time,” she replies.