“Don’t waste time. I’ll tell you when we get there.”
There was so much crisp command in her tone that he fell in beside them obediently.
“But, dear old peach,” he protested weakly. “There’s no comic old war on, don’t you know! Is it a joke? I’ll buy it. Never say Algy isn’t a sportsman, old darling.”
“There’s nothing very funny about it,” she said, and something deadly about her obvious seriousness made him hold his peace for the rest of the journey.
In the Pill Box, she sat down at once to the food Orace provided, though Algy excused himself. He had already dined, and as a matter of fact, he explained, he had been on his way to visit her at the Manor.
While she ate she talked—in curt, cold sentences which held even the fatuous Algy intent. She told him the whole story from beginning to end, and his jaw sagged lower and lower as the recital proceeded. And when it was finished she looked anxiously at him, wondering whether he would say something foolish and soothing about the heat of the day and the probability that she would feel better in the morning—or, if he believed her, whether he would show up yellow.
She was satisfied to find that her estimate had been correct. While she looked, he closed his mouth with a snap, and the tightening of his mouth lent a new strength to his face. His eyes were gazing steadily back at her, and there was a steady soberness in them which transformed him.
“Just like a shilling shocker—what?” said Algy quietly, but there was not much flippancy in his voice.
She outlined their plan, and he was staggered.
“You’ve a nerve!” he remarked. “But isn’t that old Carn’s job?”