"This must be Spilsby," said Bob. He saw Geordie's dust go off at a right angle toward the right.
"I've done it," said the exultant boy. "We must be near Pen's now."
For to turn to the right in the neighbourhood of Spilsby means to go toward the North Sea.
Bob ran into Spilsby quite meekly on the second speed, and turned after Geordie. A mile farther on, Bob saw a house in some trees, and all of a sudden there was no more dust from Geordie's car. Bob pulled up in the middle of the road.
"By Jove, I've done it, I know," said Bob, "and now I feel a bit nervous. I wonder what Pen will say, and whether her husband is there, and what the kid's like. Well, here's for it! She can't do more than eat me."
And he drove on till he came to the house, which was an ivy-covered building like a square barrack, and would have been hideous without its creepers. There was a moat around it and big elms hid it from a distance. The gate was open, and by the front door stood Geordie and his car. Bob gave a view-halloo, and, twisting through the gate, came to a standstill alongside Pen's big yellow racer.
And Penelope herself came to the door, and saw not only Geordie, whom she recognized simply by the fact that he was in a car she knew, but an undistinguishable stranger also.
"Oh!" said Bob.
"Eh?" said Geordie.
"Who—" said Penelope.