Spring looked up, smiling.
“Keep something for the heiress,” she said.
A car slid out of the distance, crept past the gates and stopped by the side of the hedge, three paces away.
“We’re not far off,” said a man’s voice. “I know this property here, but these corkscrew lanes of yours have tied me up. I can’t remember which side the village lies. Maybe there’s a porter here. . . .”
A door was opened and someone descended into the road.
Before he could reach the gate, Bagot was out of his garden and in the drive.
“Can I help you, sir?”
As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed Spring’s party the week before.
And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . .
The way to Holy Brush was asked and told.