His face was black, what of his dressing-gown was not singed, was sodden. He flourished the spade.
“I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott with dignity. “We Stotts come of a hard bit’n race. My father was a firem’n—he rescued thousan’s from burnin’.”
Here he was getting near to the truth, for, as had been before remarked, Mr. Stott’s father was a Baptist minister.
XXXVI
“We must warn Miss Ardfern at once. I have been on the telephone with her this evening. I was enquiring about you, and the chances are that I so thoroughly alarmed her, that she is awake. I only hope to God she is,” said Carver.
But whilst it was easy earlier in the evening to get into touch with Hertford 906, it was now impossible. The Hertford operator, after the second attempt, signalled through that there was an interruption.
Carver came back to Mr. Stott’s dining-room with a grave face. They could speak without interruption because Mrs. Stott and the errant Eline had disappeared. Mr. Stott, his hands clasped across his stomach, was fast asleep in a chair, a touch of a smile on his lips. Probably he was dreaming of his heroic and hard bit’n ancestors.
“Tab,” said Carver, “you know Stone Cottage? Have you any recollection of the telephone arrangements? Is it a dead-end connection or is it connected from the road?”
“I think it is from the road,” said Tab, “the wire runs by the house and the connection crosses the garden. I remember because Ursula said how unsightly it was.”
Carver nodded.