“And now,” she said, “if only you can tell me where I am, or if your man knows Farmer Bartlemoor’s, it will be all right, and I shall be so very grateful to you.”
But to her surprise Mr Cheviott did not at once reply, nor did he turn to “Andrew” for information. Instead of this, he took out his watch, and, examining it by the light of the lamp, murmured something to himself.
“Five miles—twenty minutes,” he said, “yes, that would be far the quickest.”
Then he turned to Mary.
“Miss Western,” he said, gravely, “you are getting as wet as you possibly can. I must drive you to some shelter. Shall I take you back to the Edge, or home?”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Mary. “Don’t mind me. I entreat you not to mind me. If you have time to drive anywhere, if I dare ask you such an unheard-of thing, drive me to the nearest point to Dr Brandreth’s. I feel as if I could not go to the Bartlemoors, they don’t know me, and my head is growing so confused I am not sure that I should know what to say when I got there.”
He had half expected this—it hardly seemed possible to oppose her—and the risk to herself, if greater in one way seemed less in another.
“Well, then,” he said, “will you do exactly as I tell you?”
“Yes,” she replied, meekly, “exactly.”
“Your cloak is waterproof, I see,” he continued, “is your dress dry underneath it?”