“I’m frightfully grateful.”
“That’s all right. Look here, can you tell us the way to Crofton?”
“Sure. Straight down here. I’m going there, as a matter of fact.”
“Thank Heaven. Lead and I follow, as Sir Galahad says. How far?”
“Five miles.”
“Decent inn?”
“My governor keeps the ‘Fox-and-Hounds.’ Would that do? We’d give you awfully decent grub.”
“Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan passed. Buzz off, my lad. No, Charles, I will not wait while you put on a Burberry. Back and side go bare, go bare, hand and foot go cold, so belly-god send us good ale enough, whether it be new or old.”
The starter hummed—the youth mounted his machine and led off down the lane after one alarming wobble—Wimsey slipped in the clutch and followed in his wake.
The “Fox-and-Hounds” turned out to be one of those pleasant, old-fashioned inns where everything is upholstered in horse-hair and it is never too late to obtain a good meal of cold roast sirloin and home-grown salad. The landlady, Mrs. Piggin, served the travellers herself. She wore a decent black satin dress and a front of curls of the fashion favoured by the Royal Family. Her round, cheerful face glowed in the firelight, seeming to reflect the radiance of the scarlet-coated huntsmen who galloped and leapt and fell on every wall through a series of sporting prints. Lord Peter’s mood softened under the influence of the atmosphere and the house’s excellent ale, and by a series of inquiries directed to the hunting-season, just concluded, the neighbouring families and the price of horseflesh, he dexterously led the conversation round to the subject of the late Miss Clara Whittaker.