Judith did not press her search for Good very rapidly. The night, with the soft and pungent haze of Indian summer filling the air, and the drowsy moon bathing the gardens in argent mystery, cast their spell about her, and she lingered frequently. The crickets chirped like mad, snatches of distant music came faintly to her ears, and the gentle fragrance of the flowers filled her nostrils. It was on such a night, she reflected, that Imrie....
She found Good finally, more by accident than design, in a distant corner of the garden. He was hunched forward in his seat, and his head was on his chest. At first she thought him asleep. Then she heard him scratch a match. The momentary glow showed his brows drawn close together. It was a way he had, she knew, when his thoughts were troublesome.
"It's late, Mr. Good," she said.
"Hello," he cried, with a start. Then he recognised her. "Oh—everybody gone?"
"Yes—and sorry to miss you."
"Poppycock," he said succinctly.
"Don't you believe they were?"
His only reply was a short laugh—not pleasant. She changed the subject quickly.
"I never dreamed you could be so entertaining. You were the life of the party."
"A parakeet could do as well," he snapped. "This is a rather old pipe—mind it?"