“Rather, come out in the garden.”
They went out.
The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gave upon the road.
The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover’s patients were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type.
“What’s at the other side of this wall?” asked Jones, as they passed along by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled.
“Girls,” said he.
“Girls! what sort of girls?”
“Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessons there, it’s a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I climbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and they all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over the wall and toss for sovereigns—then a lady came and told me to go away. She didn’t seem to like me.”
Jones, all during luncheon—the meal was served in his own apartments—revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. Smithers’ mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had satisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hat had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked for a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweed shooting cap of Hoover’s.
With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, he noticed, had its opening facing the house.