The detective cursed and fumed inwardly, but it had to be borne. If he had rushed out without standing his whack, every subsequent customer would hear the innkeeper’s comments on the doctor’s extraordinary behaviour. And that would get to the Tiger’s ears, and the Tiger, as Simon Templar had observed, owned a nasty, suspicious mind.
But the ordeal ended at last, and Carn was able to excuse himself. He went through the village and set out up the hill to the Pill Box. It was a sultry day, and Carn had accumulated a lot of spare avoirdupois since his London-to-Southend days. He climbed doggedly, with the perspiration streaming down into his collar, and gasped his relief when the slope commenced to flatten out.
He was still a dozen yards from the Pill Box when Orace appeared at the door. Orace made it elaborately obvious that he had simply come out for a breather. He surveyed the scenery with the concentrated interest of an artist, and honoured the detective with nothing but a nonchalant glance, but he kept his right hand behind his back.
“Mr. Templar in?” demanded Carn from a distance.
“Ain’t,” replied Orace laconically.
“D’you know where he is?”
Orace focused the detective with unfriendly eyes.
“Dunno. Gorn fra walk, mos’ likely. ’E might be chasin’ ippopotamoscerosses acrorst Epping Forest,” enlarged Orace, become humorous, “or ’e might be ’opping up’n’ dahn the ’Ome Secrety’s chimbley looking fer Santiclaws. Or ’e mightn’t. ’Oo knows, as the actriss said ta the bishup?”
“Now, look here, Little Tich,” rasped Carn with pardonable heat, “I haven’t sweated up this blasted mountain in a temperature like hell warmed up just to hear a lot of funny back chat from you. The Tiger’s going to push you over the cliff to-night, but you don’t matter much. It’s Mr. Templar I came to warn.”
Orace looked meditatively at the detective.