All but buried under the big, black sombrero-like felt hat, which it was his whim to affect, in grotesque contrast with the light, loosely cut shooting clothes which were his habitual wear, Uncle Bond sat low down in his seat in the car, on the King's left. In spite of his invocation of gravity, gravity remained far from him. Nothing could altogether efface the mischievous twinkle which lurked in his spectacled eyes, or blot out, for long, the mocking smile which puckered his mobile lips. But the King knew Uncle Bond well enough to realize that he was unusually thoughtful. What was it Judith had said? It was almost as if Uncle Bond had something on his mind. Judith was right. The little man, clearly, at any rate, had something that he wanted to say.
It was not until the car had swung out of the lane, and headed for London, was sweeping down the broad, and, at this comparatively early hour of the morning, empty, Great North Road, that Uncle Bond spoke.
"We have not seen very much of you, lately, my boy," he remarked. "You have been busy, no doubt. In the Service, you young men are not your own masters, of course. And Judith tells me that they have even made the mistake of giving you—promotion. I have been wondering if that—promotion—is likely to make your visits to us more difficult, and so rarer? The increasing responsibility, the increasing demands on your energy, and on your time, which your—promotion—has, no doubt, brought with it, will, perhaps, interfere with your visits to us? Perhaps you will have to discontinue your visits to us, altogether, for a time?"
Although his own eyes were, of necessity, fixed on the stretch of the broad, empty, sunlit road, immediately in front of the throbbing car, the King was uncomfortably aware that Uncle Bond was watching him narrowly as he spoke. This, then, was the something that the little man had on his mind. Suspicion? Doubt? Doubt of him? Doubt of his loyalty to his friends? In spite of the little man's suave manner, and carefully chosen phrases, it seemed to the King that the inference was unmistakable. It was an astonishing inference to come from Uncle Bond. Discontinue his visits? This, when he had just been congratulating himself on the unchanged nature of his intimacy with Judith, and with the Imps, so unexpectedly, and seriously, threatened, the night before, but so thoroughly and happily, re-established, that morning. Had he not made up his mind that all was to be as it had always been? But Uncle Bond knew nothing about that, of course.
"My—promotion—will not interfere with my visits to you, and to Judith, Uncle Bond," he declared.
"You are sure of that?" Uncle Bond persisted.
"Absolutely certain," the King exclaimed, and in spite of his efforts to suppress it, a note of rising irritation sounded in his voice.
There was a momentary pause.
Then Uncle Bond chuckled.
"Change your gear, my boy. I chuckled! Change your gear," he crowed. "A mile or two of real speed will do neither you nor me, any harm, now. Did I not say—'Enter emotion!' But I did not say that it would be my emotion, did I? You are the hero of this piece. It is for you the slow music has to be played. I am only the knockabout comedian, useful for filling in the drop scenes. Or am I the heavy father? 'Pon my soul, when I come to think of it, it seems to me that I am destined to double the two parts."