"Listen!" said French.
Sounds came very clearly up here from the lower land, and the sound which had attracted French's attention was the throb of a motor-car approaching along the station road.
Moved by an identical impulse, they approached the window leading on to the verandah. Mr. French opened it, and they passed out.
Miss Grimshaw and Mr. French could see the car—a large touring car—approaching slowly; there was only one individual in it, and—"That's him!" said Miss Grimshaw, forgetful of grammar, leaving the verandah and taking the down-hill path to the road.
French followed her, and they reached the road just as the car was coming to a halt. It was Mr. Dashwood, in very truth, but a more different edition of the joyous and irresponsible Bobby it would be hard to imagine. His hat on the back of his head exposed fully his face, grimy, unwashed, and weary. He had, altogether, the disreputable appearance of a person who has been out all night, and as he crawled out of the car, his movements suggested old age or rheumatism.
"Something to eat!" said Bobby as he took French's arm with his left hand and held out his right to Miss Grimshaw. "I'm nearly done. Giveen is loose, but I'll tell you it all when I get up to the house. Thanks, may I lean on you? The car will be all right here."
"Come along up," said French.
No word was said till Mr. Dashwood was seated in the sitting-room, with a glass of whisky and soda in his hand.
"Oh, this is good!" said he. "I haven't had a drink since I don't know how long."
"Don't drink till you have had some food," said the girl. "I'll get something for you at once. There's a tin of tongue——"