“Ah, that accounts for it!” nodded Sir Roland. “If you knew him, you’d agree. Fellow ought to be killed. Thought so for a long time.”
Captain Heron gave it up in despair.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr Crosby Drelincourt had been too much shaken by his experiences to think of dinner when he left Meering. All he desired was to reach his own lodgings. He drove from Meering to Twyford, where he changed horses, and went to the grievous expense of hiring an armed guard to protect him from highwaymen. The journey home seemed to him interminable, but the chaise set him down in Jermyn Street not long after ten o’clock, by which time he had recovered a little from his adventures, and had begun to feel the pangs of hunger. Unfortunately, since he had not been expected to return that night, no supper had been provided, and he was forced to go out to an ordinary, so that he might just as well, he reflected bitterly, have dined on the road after all.
He slept late next morning, and was sitting down to breakfast in his dressing-gown when he heard a thundering on the front door, followed in a few moments by the sound of voices. He dropped his knife, listening. One voice was raised insistently, and Mr Drelincourt knew that voice. He turned quickly to his valet, who had just set the coffee-pot down before him: “I’m not at home!” he said. “Quick, don’t let them come up!”
The valet said obtusely: “Beg pardon, sir?”
Mr Drelincourt thrust him towards the door. “Tell them I’m away, you fool! Stop them coming up! I’m not well; I can’t see any one!”
“Very good, sir” said the valet, hiding a smile.
Mr Drelincourt sank back into his chair, nervously wiping his face with his napkin. He heard the valet go downstairs to parley with the visitors. Then, to his horror, he heard someone come up, three steps at a time.
The door was rudely burst open. Viscount Winwood stood on the threshold. “Away, are you?” he said. “Now why are you so anxious not to see me, eh?”