“How long ago?”
“Not more than a couple of minutes.”
The two men ran on. Ralph continued his descent of the slope, gave the policemen, who were struggling up it, a friendly greeting, walked briskly down to the ploughed field and across it, struck the road a little below the inn, close to the corner.
A hundred yards round it were the beeches and apple trees of the farm-yard where the carriage awaited him.
Leonard was on the box, whip in hand. Josephine Balsamo, inside the carriage, held the door open.
Ralph said to Leonard: “Drive along the road to Yvetot.”
“What?” cried the Countess. “But it takes us past the inn!”
“The essential thing is that they should not guess that we came out of this place. If we go round the corner toward Yvetot, they will not know where we came from. Just a gentle trot, Leonard ... about the pace of a hearse returning empty from a funeral.”
Leonard shook the reins, the horses trotted quietly round the corner along the road, past the inn. On its threshold stood Mother Vasseur. She just threw out her right hand sideways in a gesture of greeting and farewell and turned and went inside.
“That sets her mind at rest, poor old thing,” said the Countess. “Look!”