“I told you that it ended with my wanting to fight Frank Jervaise,” I reminded him.
He grinned again. “How did he get out of it?” he asked.
“What makes you think he wanted to get out of it?” I retorted.
He measured me for a moment with his eye before he said, “Mr. Frank isn’t the fighting sort. I’ve seen him go white before now, when I’ve took the corner a bit sharp.” He paused a moment before adding, “But they’re all a bit like that.”
“Nervous at dangerous corners,” I commented, sharpening his image for him.
“Blue with funk,” he said.
It occurred to me that possibly some hint of the family taint in Brenda had influenced, at the last moment, the plan of her proposed elopement; but I said nothing of that to Banks.
“I’d better leave my things,” I said, returning to the subject which was of chief importance to me. You take me to that inn at Hurley. If I arrive in a motor, they’ll take me in all right, even though I haven’t any luggage. I’ll invent some story as we go.”
“They’d take you in,” Banks replied thoughtfully. “’Tisn’t hardly more than a public house, really.”
I thought that some strain of the gentleman’s servant in him was concerned with the question of the entertainment proper to my station.