Mr. Fentolin spread out his hands.
“Could one avoid the knowledge of it?” he asked. “Such a sight has never been seen.”
“We found we couldn’t get to Harwich,” Gerald went on. “They telegraphed to London and got permission to bring us to Yarmouth. We were on our way to Norwich, and the train ran off the line.”
“An accident?” Mr. Fentolin exclaimed.
Gerald nodded.
“Our train ran off the line and pitched down an embankment. Mr. Dunster has concussion of the brain. He and I were taken to a miserable little inn near Wymondham. From there I hired a motor-car and brought him here.”
“You hired a motor-car and brought him here,” Mr. Fentolin repeated softly. “My dear boy—forgive me if I find this a little hard to understand. You say that you have brought him here. Had he nothing to say about it?”
“He was unconscious when we picked him up,” Gerald explained. “He is unconscious now. The doctor said he would remain so for at least twenty-four hours, and it didn’t seem to me that the journey would do him any particular harm. The roof had been stripped off the inn where we were, and the place was quite uninhabitable, so we should have had to have moved him somewhere. We put him in the tonneau of the car and covered him up. They have carried him now into a bedroom, and Sarson is looking after him.”
Mr. Fentolin sat quite silent. His eyes blinked once or twice, and there was a curious curve about his lips.
“You have done well, my boy,” he pronounced slowly. “Your scheme of bringing him here sounds a little primitive, but success justifies everything.”