"Can you tell me how I can get on to the Portsmouth Road?"
"Aye, I think I could do that; but stop your engine, please—I've a little girl in here as is very ill."
He ran out and did what she asked. Then he came back, and as she took him into her tiny living-room, he saw that there were tears rolling down her tired face.
"Is your child very ill?" he asked.
She nodded. "Doctor says if she can get through the next two days she may be all right."
"Is your husband with you?"
She shook her head. "I'm a widow, sir; my husband was killed in the War. I'm only caretaking here. When the house up there is sold, they'll turn me out."
"I'm looking for a country house. Perhaps I'll come over and see it one day. Is it an old house?"
"Well," she said vaguely, "it isn't a new house, sir. It's a mighty fine place, and they do say it's going dirt cheap." And then she added slowly, "There's a map hanging in the kitchen. It was hanging up yonder in the servants' hall but I brought it down here, as so many people asks the way."
It was an old-fashioned country road map, and Radmore, bending down, saw in a moment where he was, and the best way home; and then feeling in a queer kind of mood, a mood in which a man may do a strange and unexpected thing, he took out of his pocket the £5 he had offered to Mr. Trotman.