“I’ve been trimming a hedge. I ain’t had time to be looking for anyone.”
“I see,” said Mr. Hatfield, aware that the man would give no information. “Thank you.”
All the Cubs started to leave. As they moved away, they heard a faint call from the veranda.
“Oh, Pete!”
The gardener became somewhat confused upon seeing that Colonel Brekenridge was beckoning to him.
“Tell those folks to come here,” the master of the estate called.
“You heard him,” the gardener muttered, annoyed that Colonel Brekenridge had interfered. “He’s willing to see you. Why, I wouldn’t know, after telling me to keep folks away.”
The Cubs and the three men went on to the pillared veranda.
Colonel Brekenridge, once a large man now wasted to a shadow of his former self, lay in a specially built reclining wheel chair. He wore glasses and had been reading, for several English magazines and The Spectator were spread on a table beside him.
“You were sending these people away, Pete?” the master of the estate asked the gardener. “Did I not hear them ask to see me?”