“It is only the wind: there must be a little breeze getting up,” said Mr. Clement-Pell. “Thank you; and good night. Oh, by the way, don’t talk of this, Mr. Ludlow. If Johnson has been exceeding, he would not like to hear of it again.”
“No fear, sir. Once more, good night.”
Before I had well leaped the steps of the balcony, the window, a very heavy one, was closed with a bang, and the shutters being put to. Glancing back, I saw the white face of Clement-Pell through the closing shutters, and then heard the bolts shot. What could he be afraid of? Perhaps Johnson turned mad when he drank. Some men do.
“Have you been making that bag, Johnny?” they called out when I caught them up.
“No.”
“I’m sure it was on the chair,” said Helen.
“Oh, I found it at once. I stayed talking with Mr. Pell. I say, has the night grown damp?—or is it my fancy?”
“What does it matter?” returned Bill Whitney. “I wish I was in a bath, for my part, if it was only cold water.”
The Squire stood at the end of the garden when we reached home, with old Jacobson, whose gig was waiting. After reproaching us with our sins, first for sending the carriage back empty, then for being so late, the Squire came round and asked all about the party. Old Jacobson drew in his lips as he listened.