“I’m on,” the young man agreed shortly. “It’s an open car, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gerald replied. “I can stick it in front with you, and we can cover—him up in the tonneau.”
“You’ll wait until the doctor comes back?” the landlord asked.
“And why should they?” his wife interposed sharply. “Them doctors are all the same. He’ll try and keep the poor gentleman here for the sake of a few extra guineas, and a miserable place for him to open his eyes upon, even if the rest of the roof holds, which for my part I’m beginning to doubt. They’d have to move him from here with the daylight, anyhow. He can’t lie in the bar parlour all day, can he?”
“It don’t seem right, somehow,” the man complained doggedly. “The doctor didn’t say anything about having him moved.”
“You get the car,” Gerald ordered the young man. “I’ll take the whole responsibility.”
The chauffeur silently left the room. Gerald put a couple of sovereigns upon the mantelpiece.
“My friend is a man of somewhat peculiar temperament,” he said quietly. “If he finds himself at home in a comfortable room when he comes to his senses, I am quite sure that he will have a better chance of recovery. He cannot possibly be made comfortable here, and he will feel the shock of what has happened all the more if he finds himself still in the neighbourhood when he opens his eyes. If there is any change in his condition, we can easily stop somewhere on the way.”
The woman pocketed the two sovereigns.
“That’s common sense, sir,” she agreed heartily, “and I’m sure we are very much obliged to you. If we had a decent room, and a roof above it, you’d be heartily welcome, but as it is, this is no place for a sick man, and those that say different don’t know what they are talking about. That’s a real careful young man who’s going to take you along in the motor-car. He’ll get you there safe, if any one will.”