“But haven’t you been lookin’ up the grocery trade?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t been near the place. I went out for a walk and missed the edge of the cliff in the dark. Luckily I didn’t fall far—there was a ledge—but I had a stiff climb getting back.”
He collapsed like a marionette with the strings cut. “And you haven’t been fightin’ off the advances of a madman? No leerin’ lunatic tryin’ to rob you of life and or honour?”
“Of course not.”
“Oo-er!” The revelation was too much for Mr. Lomas-Coper—one might almost have thought that he was disappointed at the swift shattering of his lurid hypothesis. “Put the old tootsy into it, haven’t I? What? . . . I’d better be wobblin’ home. Stammerin’ out his apologies, the wretched young man took his hat, his leave, and his life.”
She caught his sleeve and pulled him back.
“Do be sensible,” she begged. “Was your uncle worried?”
“Nothing ever moves the old boy,” said Algy. “He just takes a swig at the barleywater and says it reminds him of Blitzensfontein or something. Unsympathetic, I call it.”
The girl’s mind could give only a superficial attention to Algy’s prattle. She had not known that the noise had been great enough to rouse the neighbourhood, and she wondered how that would affect the Saint’s obscure plans. On the other hand, Bittle would hardly dare go to extremes while she was at large and could testify to some of the events of the evening, and while other people’s curiosity had been aroused by the resultant hullabaloo. Then she remembered that Bittle’s house and Bloem’s stood some distance apart from the others, and it was doubtful whether enough of the din could have been heard outside to attract the notice of Sir Michael Lapping or the two retired Civil Servants—whose bungalows were the next nearest. But Bloem and Algy knew, and their knowledge might save the Saint.