"You can put it down to anything you like," he said, "except philanthropy."
West considered a moment.
"Very well, sir," he said finally, his aggressive tone slightly modified. "In that case I will come with you."
He turned about, and thrust his arms into the coat Babbacombe held for him, turned up the collar, and without a backward glance, stepped into the waiting motor.
Babbacombe started the engine, and followed him. In another moment they had glided away into the dripping mist, and the prison was left behind.
Through mile after mile they sped in silence. West sat with his chin buried in his coat, his keen eyes staring straight ahead. Babbacombe, at the wheel, never glanced at him once.
Through villages, through towns, through long stretches of open country they glided, sometimes slackening, but never stopping. The sun broke through at length, revealing a country of hills and woods and silvery running streams. They had been travelling for hours. It was nearly noon.
For the first time since their start Babbacombe spoke.
"I hope I haven't kept you going too long. We are just getting in."
"Don't mind me," said West.