“Buddesby, sir?” said the waiter. “Yes, sir. Mister John Everard’s place about a quarter of a mile beyond the village. Very interesting old ’ouse, sir, one of the best farms hereabouts. Mr. Everard’s a well-to-do gentleman, sir, old family, not—”
“Oh, go away!”
The waiter withdrew. “Anyhow,” he thought, “he got it all right last night, and serve him right. Law! what a mess ’e were in when he came in.”
A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Slotman nodded. He would go. He remembered that Alston had said something last night about this man Everard, had suggested all sorts of things might happen to him, Slotman, if he communicated in any way with Everard.
“Anyhow I shall tell him, and unless he is a born fool he will soon get quit of her. By thunder! I’ll make her name reek, as I told her I would. I’ll set this place and Starden and half the infernal country talking about her! If she shews her face anywhere, she’ll get stared at. I’ll let her and that beast Alston see what it means to get on the wrong side of a chap like me.”
A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Thank Heaven it was no further.
The church bells had ceased ringing, from the church itself came the pleasant sounds of voices. The village street lay white in the sunlight with the blue shadows of the houses, a world of peace and of beauty, of sweet scenes and of sweet sounds; and now he had left the village behind him.
“Is this Buddesby, my man? Those gates, are they the gates of Buddesby?”
“Aye, they be,” said the man. He was a big, gipsy-looking fellow, who slouched with hunched shoulders and a yellow mongrel dog at his heels.
“The gates of Buddesby they be, and—” He paused; he stared hard into Slotman’s face.