It was nearly eight before Bobby came back along the cart-track into sight of the little beech-wood, and his heart jumped when he saw two heavy-looking men advancing towards him. He knew them for asylum men at once; they had the unmistakable flavour of subaltern authority that distinguishes prison warders, ex-policemen, time-keepers, and the keepers of the insane. As he throbbed near them they came into the middle of the road and made signs for him to stop. “Hell!” said Bobby, and pulled up.
They came alongside and without evident hostility.
“Excuse me, sir,” said one—and Bobby felt better.
“That large place you see there, sir, is Cummerdown Asylum. Perhaps you know it, sir?”
“No. Which is the asylum? All of it?” Bobby felt he was being really clever and his spirits rose.
“Yesir.”
“Damn great place!” said Bobby.
“We’ve got one of our inmates astray this morning. Harmless little man, he is, and we ventured to stop you and ask you if you’ve seen him.”
Bobby had an inspiration. “I believe I have. Was he in a sort of brown robe and slippers with nothing on his head?”
“That’s ’im, sir. Where did you see him?”