“The time's gone by for all that,” she went on; “you can't find out the real thing like that—if there is really anything to find——” and she sighed rather drearily; for, like many of the women of our wealthy class, she was old and broken in thought, though young and clean enough in her emotions.
“Our object,” said Turnbull, shortly, “is to make an effective demonstration”; and after that word, MacIan looked at his vision again and found it smaller than ever.
“It would be in the newspapers, of course,” said the girl. “People read the newspapers, but they don't believe them, or anything else, I think.” And she sighed again.
She drove in silence a third of a mile before she added, as if completing the sentence: “Anyhow, the whole thing's quite absurd.”
“I don't think,” began Turnbull, “that you quite realize——Hullo! hullo—hullo—what's this?”
The amateur chauffeur had been forced to bring the car to a staggering stoppage, for a file of fat, blue policemen made a wall across the way. A sergeant came to the side and touched his peaked cap to the lady.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” he said with some embarrassment, for he knew her for a daughter of a dominant house, “but we have reason to believe that the gentlemen in your car are——” and he hesitated for a polite phrase.
“I am Evan MacIan,” said that gentleman, and stood up in a sort of gloomy pomp, not wholly without a touch of the sulks of a schoolboy.
“Yes, we will get out, sergeant,” said Turnbull, more easily; “my name is James Turnbull. We must not incommode the lady.”
“What are you taking them up for?” asked the young woman, looking straight in front of her along the road.