“I am not,” he assured her; “in fact I was admiring Mr. Varney’s simplification. His definition of the game is worthy of Dr. Johnson. But I must tear myself away. My host is an early bird and I expect you are, too. Good night, Mrs. Purcell. It has been very delightful to meet you again. I am only sorry that I should have missed your husband.”
“So am I,” said Margaret, shaking his hand warmly, “but I think it most kind of you to have remembered me after all these years.”
As Dr. Thorndyke rose, the other three men stood up. “It is time for us to go, too,” said Rodney, “so we will see you to the end of the road, Thorndyke. Good night, Mrs. Purcell.”
“Good night, gentlemen all,” she replied. “Eight o’clock breakfast, remember.”
The four men went into the house to fetch their hats and took their departure, walking together as far as the cross-roads; where Thorndyke wished the other three good night and left them to pursue their way to the village.
The lodging accommodation in this neighbourhood was not sumptuous, but our three friends were not soft or fastidious. Besides, they only slept at their “diggings,” taking their meals and making their home at the house which Purcell had hired, furnished, for the holiday. It was a somewhat unconventional arrangement, now that Purcell had gone, and spoke eloquently of his confidence in the discretion of his attractive wife.
The three men were not in the same lodgings. Varney was “putting up” at the “First and Last” inn in the adjoining village—or “church-town,” to give it its local title—of Sennen, while the Rodneys shared a room at the “Ship” down in Sennen Cove, more than a mile away. They proceeded together as far as Varney’s hostel, when, having wished him “good night,” the two brothers strode away along the moonlit road towards the Cove.
For a while neither spoke, though the thoughts of both were occupied by the same subject, the solicitor’s letter. Phillip had fully taken in the situation, although he had made no remark on it, and the fact that his brother had been consulted quasi-professionally on the subject made him hesitate to refer to it. For, in spite of his gay, almost frivolous, manner, Phillip Rodney was a responsible medical practitioner and really a man of sound judgment and discretion.
Presently his scruples yielded to the consideration that his brother was not likely to divulge any confidence and he remarked:
“I hope Purcell hasn’t been doing anything shady. It sounded to me as if there was a touch of Pontius Pilate in the tone of Penfield’s letter.”