After some preliminary "taxi-ing" on the ground, Denis rose, circling over the marshes. The country was asleep; pillars of smoke rose from cottage chimneys, but not a soul was abroad except the milkman, with his rattling silver cans, and a solitary cyclist, spinning down the road towards Dent-de-lion. The cyclist waved a greeting; the blasé milkman did not so much as glance up. Denis sailed over them, over the roof of his house, turned into the wind, "flattened out" (i.e. brought level the nose of his machine, which had been gliding down a slant) and grounded on the turf without a jar. The brake acted perfectly. Simpson ran up, almost enthusiastic. He and Denis stood together talking shop (which was the sum of Simpson's talk) with zeal (Simpson supplying the zeal).
"Hi!"
Denis turned, screwing up his short-sighted eyes. At sight of the approaching figure his jaw dropped; he spoke one curt imperious sentence over his shoulder to Simpson, seized the new-comer's arm, dragged him back to the house, thrust him into the parlor and locked the door upon him, all without a word. Gardiner was left gasping. Here was a reception! But in a minute Denis was back, pushing open the door with a tray of breakfast crockery and the inevitable sausages. He deposited his burden on the table, which was already laid, and turned to lock the door again.
"What on earth possessed you to come here? I've shut up Simpson, and he'll hold his tongue, but I'd not answer for Miss Simpson, if she saw you. You must be mad!"
"Mad?—to come here? I'm not running from the police, my good Denis; did you think I was?"
"I understood your brother to say—"
"Oh, you've heard from Tom, have you?" Gardiner's tone was a shade less confident. "Yes, I admit I did do a bunk from Woodlands; they took me by surprise, and I wasn't ready for 'em; I had two-three things to finish off—among others, I wanted a word with you. Which is why I'm here. But as soon as I've swallowed the sausage which I trust you're going to offer me I'm off to Margate to surrender to the minions of the law."
"I thought you couldn't stand prison," said Denis. "I thought it was the one risk you weren't prepared to face. However, it's no business of mine. If you can face it, I certainly think you're wise to. Mustard? Oh, I forgot, you don't take it, do you?"
He poured out a cup of Miss Simpson's rich, muddy coffee for Gardiner and another for himself, but he did not drink; he went to the window and stood looking down the road. Gardiner, who was famished, drew up his chair; but his eyes kept straying to that silent figure. There was something in the wind that he did not like. Denis was utterly unlike himself, unlike any self his friend had ever had a glimpse of. He was so unapproachable that Gardiner knew not how to broach the errand that had brought him there. Presently, however, he turned to attend to Geraldine, who was winding round his boots and opening her little pink mouth in soundless mews of ecstasy. As he rose from putting down the saucer, he caught Gardiner's eye, and smiled faintly.
"Sorry, Harry. 'Fraid I've rather let you down over this business. Anybiddy else would have made a better hand at it. But I'm not much good at dissembling, and tell a lie I cann't—any babe could see through it. Else I'd have done my best."