"Two blighters," said Dale-Bulmer. "I caught sight of 'em just after I had left you to have it out with her. That's what they had to say for themselves when I went out to let off steam; swore they were from Scotland Yard, and trumped up the two-seater when I pretended not to believe them. Nor did I till I'd run them down to the lodge and seen it for myself."
"And then?"
"I swore it belonged to a friend, of course, and sent them both to the devil."
"And—and you were man enough not to say a word about it to—to her?" It was as much as Dollar could do to keep his enthusiastic respect within bounds of discretion.
"Man enough? I wasn't going to have that sort of carrion coming in and spoiling your job!"
Then he perceived how he had spoilt it himself; hung his great head like an elderly elephantine schoolboy; turned his broad back with an inimitable shrug, and stood shaken to the pit with sobs of mirth. Dollar joined him with a shout that relieved them both. And they roared together until a gaunt caretaker appeared on the scene, with a face expressive of such crass bewilderment that their poor clay quaked with a second shock.
"He lives in the bowels of the house," moaned Dale-Bulmer. "He doesn't know a thing that's happened. If he did I might have to double his screw. And—and I'd much rather treble your fee!"
He was solemn once more in his remorse, but not so solemn as the doctor had become within a minute.
"I would pay a fee to take his place till to-morrow morning! I mean it, my dear sir. If you think you owe me any little amends, let me do this, for my own satisfaction!"
This from a Dollar at whom the other stared as though they had only just met. It was the crime doctor come at last.