“Then why the devil didn’t you come to me?”
“I supposed it to be the owls, sir, a bird very frequent in this locality. They make a sort of harsh, hooting howl, sir. I have sometimes wondered,” said Webster, pursuing a not uninteresting train of thought, “whether that might be the reason of the name.”
Before Mr. Bennett could join him in the region of speculation into which he had penetrated, there was a grinding of brakes on the gravel outside, and the wettest motor car in England drew up at the front door.
§ 3
From Windles to Southampton is a distance of about twenty miles; and the rain had started to fall when the car, an open one lacking even the poor protection of a cape hood, had accomplished half the homeward journey. For the last ten miles Mr. Mortimer had been nursing a sullen hatred for all created things; and, when entering the house, he came upon Mr. Bennett hopping about in the hall, endeavouring to detain him and tell him some long and uninteresting story, his venom concentrated itself upon his erstwhile friend.
“Oh, get out of the way!” he snapped, shaking off the other’s hand. “Can’t you see I’m wet?”
“Wet! Wet!” Mr. Bennett’s voice quivered with self-pity. “So am I wet!”
“Father dear,” said Billie reprovingly, “you really oughtn’t to have come into the house after bathing without drying yourself. You’ll spoil the carpet.”
“I’ve not been bathing! I’m trying to tell you....”
“Hullo!” said Bream, with amiable innocence, coming in at the tail-end of the party. “Been having a jolly bathe?”