The familiar curtain rings awakened Benham. He turned his head over, stared for a moment and then remembered.
“Merkle,” he said, “I am going for a walking tour. I am going off this morning. Haven't I a rucksack?”
“You 'ave a sort of canvas bag, sir, with pockets to it,” said Merkle. “Will you be needing the VERY 'eavy boots with 'obnails—Swiss, I fancy, sir—or your ordinary shooting boots?”
“And when may I expect you back, sir?” asked Merkle as the moment for departure drew near.
“God knows,” said Benham, “I don't.”
“Then will there be any address for forwarding letters, sir?”
Benham hadn't thought of that. For a moment he regarded Merkle's scrupulous respect with a transient perplexity.
“I'll let you know, Merkle,” he said. “I'll let you know.”
For some days at least, notes, telephone messages, engagements, all this fuss and clamour about nothing, should clamour for him in vain....
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