“I think,” she said in a quiet, clear voice, “that I must have met this Mr. Coventry who lives at Heronsmere. I knew an Eliot Coventry—once.”
She did not look at Ann as she spoke, but gazed straight ahead as though the strip of bare, lonely road which stretched in front of them were of peculiarly vital interest.
“What—is he like?” she went on. Any one observing her at the moment would have gathered the impression that she was forcing herself to speak with composure—that it was not easy for her. But Ann, preoccupied with Dick Turpin’s vagaries, was not looking at her.
“Oh, he’s tall,” she made answer. “And has grey eyes. There’s a little white scar just under one of them.”
The woman beside her drew a quick breath.
“Ah”—the sweet, trâinante voice was a fraction uneven. “Then it is the man I’ve met.”
The ralli-cart swung round a corner into a narrow lane, and a quick exclamation broke from Ann as she recognised in the tall, striding figure approaching from the opposite direction the man of whom they had just been speaking. A beautiful thoroughbred collie bounded along beside him, looking up at his master every now and again with adoring eyes.
“Why, here is Mr. Coventry!” she exclaimed. “Shall I pull up?”
Without waiting for an answer she brought the cob to a standstill exactly as Eliot, catching sight of them, halted instinctively.
“Good afternoon,” she called out gaily, as he lifted his hat. “We were just speaking of you. Here is an old acquaintance of yours.”