“A rather peculiar man, if I may say so. He’s practically the owner of the Veda Company now since Mr. Berlyn’s gone. He lives here alone except for the servants. There’s a man and his wife indoors and a gardener and a chauffeur outside. He must have plenty of money, the colonel.”
“There’s nothing out of the way in all that. Why did you call him peculiar?”
“Well, just his living alone. He doesn’t have much to say to the neighbours, by all accounts. Then he catches insects about the moor and sits up half the night writing about them. They say he’s writing a book.”
“What age is he?”
“About forty-five, I should say.”
“Well, that’s all we can do here. Let’s get on to Tavistock.”
French enjoyed the remainder of the drive as much as any he had ever taken. He was immensely impressed by the mournful beauty of the scenery. They passed Two Bridges, presently striking off from the Plymouth road. On the left the great grey buildings of the prison appeared, with rugged North Hessary Tor just beyond and the farm staffed by the prisoners in the foreground. The road led on almost due west until after passing the splendid outlook of Moorshop and descending more break-neck hills they reached cultivated ground and Tavistock.
They had driven fast, and less the time they had stopped on the road, the run had taken just sixty-three minutes. The car had behaved excellently, and if French had really been contemplating its purchase he would have been well satisfied with the test.
“I want to find out how long the radiator took to cool on that night,” French said. “The point is whether the car would have done any further running, after its trip from here to the place where it was abandoned. If it takes three hours or more to cool, it couldn’t; if less, it might.”
“I follow, but I’m afraid that won’t be easy to find out.”