“Every one’s safe with Mrs. Plumer,” said Bobby, and held the door open for her to precede him out of the room.
“I’ll tell you about him to-morrow morning,” he said to her confidentially in the passage. “He’s a wonderful man.”
“He’s all right?” asked Mrs. Plumer.
“Right as can be.”
“He looks that distraught!”
“He’s a poet,” said Bobby, “besides playing on the violin,” and so satisfied her completely.
But he did not feel that he had brought the wonderful day to a completely successful end until he had got Sargon washed and brushed and tucked up cosily in Mrs. Plumer’s bright little best bedroom. “Now we’re anchored,” he said. He went into his own room and sat down for a time to invent things about his uncle in case Mrs. Plumer was desirous of more explicit information when he went downstairs. He decided to say “He’s eccentric,” in an impressive, elucidatory way. “And very shy.” His uncle, he would explain, was suffering from overwork, due to writing an heroic poem about the Prince of Wales’ journey round the world. He wanted a complete rest. And sea air. The more he stayed in bed and indoors the better. He filled in a few useful details of this story, sat for a little while twiddling the toes of his boots, and then got up and went downstairs. He felt sure he could carry it off all right with Mrs. Plumer. He found her waiting for him. The chief difficulty he encountered was her conviction that the police ought to be told of the highway robbery this side of Ashford at once.
“H’m,” said Bobby and for a moment he was at a loss. Then he decided. “I’ve done that already,” he said.
“But when?”
“I telephoned from an Automobile Association box. To the Ashford police. It will be in their district you know. Not in Romney Marsh. Sharp fellows, the Ashford police. I had to describe the lost clothes and everything. They don’t let much get by them.”