“We call it the conveyance. As to its style—well I never had the opportunity of asking that of the builder. I believe my father bought it second-hand when he first went into practice many a year ago.”
The doctor drove this time; Major Leckie sitting beside him, I in the perch behind. Leaving the major at the hairdresser’s, upon reaching Lefford, Dr. Knox and I went home. And this is what occurred—as we heard later.
Ringing at the private door, which was Captain Collinson’s proper entrance, a young servant-girl appeared, and—after the manner of many young country servants—sent Major Leckie alone up to Captain Collinson’s rooms, saying she supposed the captain was at home. It turned out that he was not at home. Seated before the fire was a gentleman in a crimson dressing-gown and slippers, smoking a huge pipe.
“Come in,” cried out he, in answer to the major’s knock.
“I beg your pardon,” said the major, entering. “I understood that Captain Collinson lodged here.”
“He does lodge here,” replied he of the dressing-gown, putting his pipe into the fender, as he rose. “What is it that you want with him?”
“I only called to see him. I am one of his brother-officers—home on sick leave; as I understand he is.”
“Collinson is out,” said the gentleman. “I am sorry it should happen so. Can you leave any message?”
“Will he be long? I should much like to see him.”
“He will be back to dinner to-night; not much before that, I think. He is gone by train to—to—some place a few miles off. Boom—or Room—or Doom—or some such name. I am a stranger here.”