“Come and see us to-morrow,” invited Patricia, and he nodded.
“Most frightfully sorry, and all that rot,” he said. “I never did have much of a brain, anyway. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, or anything, y’know. What? Cheer-tiddly-ho!”
He offered a hand to Miss Girton, but she looked down her nose at it and turned away.
“Honk-honk!” said Algy feebly, and departed.
They heard the front door close with a click, and were impressed with Mr. Lomas-Coper’s humility. Among his more normal habits was that of slamming doors with a mighty bang.
“You were very hard on Algy,” said Patricia resentfully.
“I can’t be bothered with the fool,” responded Miss Girton brusquely. “Thank Heavens he swallowed that wild yarn of yours about falling off a cliff. If he’d had any brains, the whole village would have been talking about you to-morrow. Now, what’s the truth?”
Patricia looked at her watch again. The time was crawling. Eleven-thirty. She looked up and responded:
“That yarn’s as good as another.”
“Not for me.” Agatha Girton came and stood over the girl. She looked very forbidding and masculine at that moment, and Patricia had a fleeting qualm of fear. “What happened at Bittle’s?”