"Yes—"
"A conscience," he finished, "with little on it—a purse with little in it. You see the Ancient Order of Vagabonds never used purses—unless they were other people's."
He stopped with a laugh and glanced down the road toward the scene of Hermia's accident. "All of which is interesting," he said with a practical air, "but doesn't exactly solve the problem of how we're to get you to Trouville in time for dinner with the Countess Tcherny." He took a road map from his pocket and spread it out on his knapsack between them, while Hermia peered over his shoulder and followed his long forefinger.
"Evreux, Conches, Breteuil—we must be about here—yes—and there's your crooked railroad. It goes around to Evreux, where there's a through line to the coast. You might hire a horse and wagon—but even then you would hardly get to Evreux before sunset. Miss Challoner, I'm afraid you'll not reach Trouville to-night—"
"Oh, I don't care," she said. "It's a matter of indifference to me whether I reach Trouville at all—"
"But your friends will worry."
"Oh, no—I could wire them, I suppose—"
"Oh yes. And there's a good inn at Evreux. But we had better be going at once."
He folded his map, put it in his pocket and rose, slinging his knapsack across his shoulder and offering her a hand to rise. But she didn't move or look at him. She had plucked a blade of grass and was nibbling at it, her gaze on the distant landscape to the southward.
"Wait a moment, please. I—I've something more to say to you."