It was then that Steer’s mare drew well ahead.
‘My old mare’s worth two of his,’ he thought.
Bowden’s cart was distant dust before he turned to his niece and said:
“What’s the matter with Ned Bowden. When did you see him last?”
His shrewd light eyes noted her lips quivering, and the stain on her cheeks.
“It’s—it’s a month now.”
“Is it—is it?” was all Steer said. But he flicked the mare sharply with his whip, thinking: ‘What’s this? Didn’t like that fellow’s face—was he makin’ game of us?’
Steer was an abstemious man; a tot of sloe gin before he embarked for home was the extent of his usual potations at ‘The Drake.’ But that day he took two tots because of the grin on the face of Bowden, who would sit an hour and more after he had gone, absorbing gin and cider. Was that grin meant for him and for his niece?
A discreet man, too, he let a fortnight pass while he watched out. Ned Bowden did not come to church, nor was he seen at Steer’s. Molly looked pale and peaky. And something deep stirred in Steer. ‘If he don’t mean to keep his word to her,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have the law of him, young pup!’