“Sandbourne-on-Sea,” said the driver.
Now, though the Sandbournites hate the Northbournites as the Guelphs the Ghibellines, though the two towns are at advertisemental war, the favourite pleasure drive of the char-a-bancs of Sandbourne is to Northbourne, and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is the best thereabouts, and the gradients the easiest for the horses.
“Sandbourne-on-Sea?” cried Jones.
“Yes,” said the driver.
The vision of himself being carted back to Sandbourne-on-Sea with that crowd and then back again to Northbourne—if he were not caught—appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace of Fate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did not want to go to Sandbourne. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demanded the full fare—two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns but the man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers.
“I’ll call at the livery stables as I go back,” said Jones, “and pay them there.”
“Where are you stayin’ in the town?” asked the driver.
“Belinda Villa,” said Jones.
It was the name of the villa against whose rails he had left the bicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the moment and the impression had remained.
“Mrs. Cass?”