"Scotched—not killed," was Lance's pithy verdict on the proceedings. "As a bit of mere police work—excellent. As to the result—we shall see. The C.O. must have been thankful his force wasn't a shade weaker."
This, unofficially, to Roy, who had secured leave off for tiffin at the Eltons', and had ridden forward to report his departure and inquire after the damaged hand, that concerned him more than anything else just then—not even excepting Rose.
It had been roughly wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and Lance pooh-poohed concern.
"Hurts a bit, of course. But it's no harm. I'll have it scientifically cleaned up by Collins. Don't look pathetic about nothing, old man. My silly fault for failing to ride the beggar down. Just as well it isn't your hand, you know. Unpleasant—for the women."
"Oh, it's all very well," Roy muttered awkwardly. Lance in that vein had him at a disadvantage, always.
"Don't be too late," he added, as Roy turned to go. "We may be needed. Those operatic performers in the City aren't going to sit twiddling their thumbs by the look of them. When's ... the departure?"
"To-morrow or next day, I think."
"Good job." A pause. "Give them my regards. And don't make a tale over my hand."
"I shall tell the truth," said Roy with decision. "And I'll be back about six."
He saluted and rode off; the prospective thrill of making love to Rose damped by the fact that he had not been able to look Lance in the eyes.