“Unless there's any further information you want, I think I'll get down here and walk back to the hotel. I'd be glad of a chance to stretch my legs.”
As Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him, he stepped out of the car; and they soon left him behind.
“Barring the girl,” Wendover confided to Sir Clinton as they drove on, “that Fordingbridge family seem a damned rum crew.”
“You surprise me, squire. You even capture my interest. Proceed.”
“Well, what do you make of it all?”
“I'll admit that my vulgar curiosity is piqued by their highly developed faculty of reticence. Miss Fordingbridge seems the only one of them who has a normal human desire to talk about her own affairs.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“They seem a bit at sixes and sevens. But you've a much acuter mind than I have, so I suppose you spotted that quite a long time ago.”
“I had a glimmering of it,” Wendover retorted sarcastically. “Anything more?”
“Oh, yes. For one thing, Mr. Paul Fordingbridge seems to have a singularly detached mind. Why, even you, squire, with your icy and well-balanced intellect, seem to be more affected by his niece's troubles than the wicked uncle is. Quite like the Babes in the Wood, isn't it?—with you in the rôle of a robin. All you need are some leaves and a red waistcoat to make the thing go properly.”