It was Harrison Smith's able staff work that won the day. An old enough trick, heaven knows, but one that generally works. He waited till her eyes were upon him, then shifted the direction of his gaze to a point somewhere behind Jane's back and nodded very quickly.
She is hardly to be blamed for having swung round, but in the second before she had recovered her wits and realised the bluff, the pistol had been snatched away and the three men were pouring through the French windows into the garden.
It was Mrs. Barraclough who caught her by the arm and prevented her from following.
"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Jane. "I've failed, failed."
"Nonsense, my dear," said the old lady. "You girls have been just wonderful." She pointed to an horizon of trees a mile away, where a cloud of dust showed against the shadows. "Look what a lovely start he has. My Anthony would never let himself be caught by a pack of such—such——" She hesitated for lack of a word and added "Dirty dogs" with astonishing vehemence.
"But what are we to do now?" wailed Jane.
"Let us walk down to the village church together and I don't think it would be wrong if we said a little prayer."
They had reached the front garden when the Ford car, making a considerable fuss about it, banged and snorted past the front gate.
There are those perhaps who will condemn Mrs. Barraclough's action, but let them remember she was a mother. After all it stands to the credit of any mid-Victorian lady who, notwithstanding the ravages of seventy years, is able to pick up a flower pot and hurl it accurately into a moving vehicle. The Reverend Prometheus Bolt caught the missile full in the side of the head and the last view the old lady had of him was under a shower of dirt and broken pottery, while from his lips arose a cloud of invective more azure than the skies.
From where the car had been standing appeared Cynthia the cook. In her hand she carried a watering can, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wild.