The Writer smiled reminiscently.
“What could have been more charming,” he continued—“what more considerate and courteous? My stupid, half-formed suspicions, which had been growing fainter and fainter as I strolled round the garden with my host, had by this time vanished completely, and when he found me pens, ink, and paper, as they say in the French exercise book, I stammered out my thanks. He cut me short with a smile, and told me to get on with my article. He would send it to the telegraph office, and tell his servants to get a room ready for me. And with another smile he left me alone, and I saw him pottering about the garden outside as I wrote.
“I don’t know whether it has ever happened to any of you fellows”—the Writer lit a cigarette—“to harbour suspicions which are gradually lulled, only to have them suddenly return with redoubled force. There was I, peacefully writing my account of the Appledore fête, while outside my host, an enthusiastic gardener, as he had told me, pursued his hobby. Could anything have been more commonplace and matter of fact? He was engaged on the roses at the moment, spraying them with some solution, presumably for green fly, and unconsciously I watched him. No, I reflected, it couldn’t be for green fly, because he was only spraying the roots, and even I, though not an expert, knew that green fly occur round the buds. And at that moment I caught a momentary glimpse of the two other men. They were roaring with laughter, and it seemed to me that my host was the cause of the merriment. He looked up and saw them, and the hilarity ceased abruptly. The next moment they had disappeared, and my host was continuing the spraying. He went on industriously for a few minutes, then he crossed the lawn towards the open window of the room where I was writing.
“ ‘Nearly finished?’ he asked.
“ ‘Very nearly,’ I answered. ‘Green fly bad this year?’
“ ‘Green fly?’ he said a little vaguely. ‘Oh! so-so.’
“ ‘I thought you must be tackling them on the roses,’ I pursued.
“ ‘Er, quite—quite,’ he remarked. ‘Nasty things, aren’t they?’
“ ‘Is it a special system of yours to go for the roots?’ I asked.
“He gave me one searching look, then he laughed mysteriously.