The Easedale Hotel was no longer full. A violent death, an inquest, and a confinement had emptied the house and attracted instead a crowd of casual sightseers. The lounge and terrace were full of them. Scott asked for Gardiner, and climbed many stairs to the roof. Coming out of a last trap-door, he beheld Gardiner and his friend among the chimney-pots, in close conversation, which died instantly on his appearance.
There was a table, there were chairs, there was a bed beneath an awning. Gardiner, at full length on a lounge, swung his feet to the ground and welcomed his visitor. Merion-Smith acknowledged him with a distant nod.
"I've brought you the local rag," said Scott, planting himself firmly on a hard upright chair. "It has a full report. I walked over to Ambleside for it."
Gardiner thanked him amiably, glanced over the sheet, and passed it to Denis, who read solidly through from end to end; this to keep out of the conversation. "Here's a man I don't know: safe to be a bounder: confound his impudence!"—such was his attitude to the casual stranger. He did not like the middle classes.
"We're up here because he didn't fancy the parlor," said Gardiner, with a lazy nod towards his friend. "Says the place makes him sick. You'd expect a flying man to have cranks, wouldn't you? He has enough to stock an engine. What do you recommend for nerves, doctor?"
"M'm! you don't look up to much yourself. You're the color of brown holland."
"Me? I'm as limp as a rag; never felt so pale in my life. All these agitations are so trying," said Gardiner, filling his pipe and pushing the cigarettes across the table. "Help yourself. I can recommend them; that fellow never buys a cheap smoke. How's Mrs. Trent?"
"As well as can be expected."
"Poor little woman," said Gardiner. "I say, doctor, I am beastly sorry about this. Sorrier than I've been about most things in my life."