"Well, find Mrs. Marshall!" ordered Piers impatiently. "She'll know something. She must have opened the gate."
Mrs. Marshall, summoned by a surly yell from her husband, stood in the door-way, thin-lipped and austere, and announced briefly that Sir Beverley had gone down towards the Vicarage; she didn't know no more than that.
It was enough for Piers. He was gone again like a bird on the wing. The couple at the lodge looked after him with a species of unwilling admiration. His very arrogance fed their pride in him, disapprove though they might of his wild, foreign ways. Whatever the mixture in his veins, the old master's blood ran there, and they would always be loyal to that.
That run to the Vicarage taxed even Piers' powers. The steep hill at the end made him aware that his strength had its limits, and he was forced to pause for breath when he reached the top. He leaned against the Vicarage gate-post with the memory of that winter evening in his mind when Avery had come swift-footed to the rescue, and had cooled his fury with a bucket of cold water.
A step in the garden made him straighten himself abruptly. He turned to see a tall, black-coated figure emerge. The Reverend Stephen Lorimer came up with dignity and greeted him.
"Were you about to enter my humble abode?" he enquired.
"Is my grandfather here?" asked Piers.
Mr. Lorimer smiled benignly. He liked to imagine himself upon terms of intimacy with Sir Beverley though the latter did very little to justify the idea.
"Well, no," he said, "I have not had the pleasure of seeing him here to-day. Did he express the intention of paying me a visit?"
"No, sir, no!" said Piers impatiently. "I only thought it possible, that's all. Good-bye!"