“Well, sir, I can't promise you anything,” Hemingway replied, “but I don't mind saying that I shan't worry her, unless I must. I won't keep you any longer now: you'll be wanting to get back to your hay-cutting.”
“Thanks!” Lindale said, turning, and walking with him towards the gate. “I shan't run away.”
They parted at the gate. Constable Melkinthorpe, straining his ears, managed to hear a snatch of dialogue, and found it disappointing.
“Well, you've got wonderful weather,” Hemingway remarked.
“Couldn't be better. Touch wood!” said Lindale, shutting the gate behind him.
Hemingway crossed the road to the car. “Take a walk with me, Horace,” he said. “You can drive the car round to the end of Fox Lane, Melkinthorpe, and wait for us there.”
He led Harbottle to the entrance to the footpath, and turned into it.
“Well?” said Harbottle.
“He's no fool. In fact, he's very plausible.”
“Too plausible?”