“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Ludgrove. “You mustn’t let this prey on your mind. We all know as well as you do that you have done nothing to reproach yourself with. Now I must ask you to excuse me, for I think I hear a customer in the shop.”
As the days went by, and no further developments took place, Mr. Copperdock’s face regained its accustomed cheerfulness, and he resumed his visits to the Cambridge Arms. The newspapers found fresh sensations with which to fill their columns, and even Praed Street, in the stimulus to trade furnished by the approach of Christmas, began to forget the strange occurrences of which it had been the scene. Ted Copperdock developed a new smartness of appearance and carefulness of speech, no doubt the results of his frequent enjoyment of Ivy’s company. It was only natural that on Sundays, when the young people were out at the Pictures, Mr. Copperdock should walk over to Lisson Grove to console Mrs. Tovey’s loneliness. Only Mr. Ludgrove, as he regretfully explained to his friends, found himself too busy to spend one of those week-ends in the country which he so much enjoyed.
Indeed, it was not until the week-end before Christmas that he found an opportunity for leaving the shop for more than an hour or two at a time. He confided his intentions to Mr. Copperdock on the Friday. “I have just heard that a plant of which I have long been in search is to be discovered in a spot not far from Wokingham,” he said. “The nearest Inn appears to be at a village called Penderworth. I propose to go there to-morrow and spend the afternoon and Sunday searching for the herb. As I mean to come up by an early train on Monday, I have taken the liberty of telling Mrs. Cooper, who comes in every week-day to tidy my place up, that I have left the key with you. I suppose that it is no use asking you to come with me?”
Mr. Copperdock fidgeted uncomfortably. “Leave the key by all means,” he replied heartily. “I’ll look after it for you. Sorry I can’t come with you, but you see about Christmas time I—we—there’s a lot of folk comes to the shop and I can’t very well leave Ted alone.”
“I quite understand,” said Mr. Ludgrove, without a smile. “I shall leave Waterloo at 1.30 to-morrow, and reach that station again just before ten on Monday. If Mrs. Cooper has finished before then, she will bring you back the key.”
His arrangements thus made, the herbalist closed his shop at noon on Saturday, and, equipped with a suit-case which he always took with him, took the Tube to Waterloo station. On arrival at Wokingham, he hired a car to drive him to the Cross Keys at Penderworth. It was after three o’clock when he arrived, and after securing a room, writing his name and address in the register, and arranging for some supper to be ready for him at half-past seven, he went out again immediately, a haversack slung over his shoulder, and an ordnance map in his hand.
It was after seven when he returned, his boots covered with mud, and his haversack bulging with a miscellaneous collection of plants. A fine drizzle had come on during the afternoon, and he was very wet. But trifles like these never dampened his spirits, and he made remarkable headway with the cold beef and pickles produced for his delectation. His meal over, he made his way to the smoking-room fire, and, spreading a newspaper on the table, began to examine the contents of his haversack.
The rain, which by this time was falling steadily, seemed to have kept the regular customers of the Cross Keys at home. The smoking-room was empty, but for Mr. Ludgrove; and the landlord, after leaning idly against the bar at one end of the room, and staring inquisitively at his solitary guest, could restrain his curiosity no longer. Lifting the flap, he walked across the room, with the ostensible object of making up the fire.
Mr. Ludgrove looked up at his approach. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly.
“Good evening, sir,” replied the landlord, glancing at the plants laid out on the newspaper. “You’ve been having a walk round the country this afternoon, then.”