Denise had spent a great deal of money; Cyril knew that; on charity, she said. He had no thought of what it could be. He believed in his wife as much as he believed in any woman.
"Come to Trelawney," he said quietly. "My car is at the door. We cannot catch a train now, and if your wife is hysterical, overwrought, there may be trouble."
As a man in a dream, Bertie went with Sir Cyril, heard the quiet questioning, nothing forgotten.
"The tank's fairly full, isn't it? Put out the jack and the levers. We shall not want you, Anderson. Now, Carteret. Oh, you'll want a coat—take one of mine. We must run fast for it's a long way."
The big Daimler glided off, threading her decorous, restrained way through London, gathering speed in the endless dreariness of the suburbs, shooting past tradesmen's carts, past suburban children herded by nurses in spotless white, for Suburbia on two hundred a year must not be surpassed by Belgravia on four thousand. Then the open country, the hum of warm engines, the glorious rush of the highly-powered car through the sunlit world, spurning the miles, taking the hills contemptuously, rushing along the level. Roads showed white ribbons, and then when that ribbon was gone another was to be ruled off. Policemen sprang out waving angry hands; the red car was past and away, and the quiet man who drove did not mean to stop. They stopped once for petrol and water, drank a whisky and Perrier, and munched some biscuits.
"Not bad." Cyril Blakeney looked at the clock which marked five as they tore into Trelawney. "We left at eleven. Now we shall know."
He drove to a little red-brick house looking on to the bay. Denise had brought her Cecil down to grow strong in the soft mild air; the boy had caught cold and been delicate.
Mrs Stanson was at the door, her face wrapped in a shawl. She came to meet them.
Her ladyship was out, she said, had taken the children to the bay.
"My face ached, Sir Cyril. Her ladyship said she would go alone without Ellen."