Aeons later, a voice spoke from below.
“Hullo!” said the voice.
Mr. Bennett looked down. The stalwart form of Jane Hubbard was standing beneath him, gazing up from under a tam o’shanter cap. Smith, the bulldog, gambolled about her shapely feet.
“Whatever are you doing up there?” said Jane. “I say, do you know if the car has come back?”
“No. It has not.”
“I’ve got to go to the doctor’s. Poor little Mr. Hignett is ill. Oh, well, I’ll have to walk. Come along, Smith!” She turned towards the drive, Smith caracoling at her side.
Mr. Bennett, though free now to move, remained where he was, transfixed. That sinister word “ill” held him like a spell. Eustace Hignett was ill! He had thought all along that the fellow was sickening for something, confound him!
“What’s the matter with him?” bellowed Mr. Bennett after Jane Hubbard’s retreating back.
“Eh?” queried Jane, stopping.
“What’s the matter with Hignett?”