“Is that you, Mr. Leyland? Brinkman has just left the hotel by the front door. . . . Yes, the front door. I didn’t see him myself, of course, but my husband said he came out quite coolly, just looking up at our window as if to see whether he was watched. Then I came straight to the telephone. I just looked in at the bar passage, and found that Mr. Eames was not there, so I suppose he has followed. Shall I give any message to the man at the back? Oh, all right. . . . Yes, he was carrying a despatch-box, which looks as if he would round up with you before long. . . . All right, we’ll expect you when we see you.”
“That sounds all right,” said Leyland to his companion. “We’d best take cover. Though why on earth the man came out by the front door—Gad, he must be a cool customer! To walk out with his bag from the front door, and wander in here asking for his car! Keep well behind the lorry, Mr. Pulteney. . . . Hullo, what’s that?”
The door of the workshop opened, and the proprietor appeared, drawing on a pair of motoring-gloves. “Sorry, sir, it’s twenty-five to; got to go and pick up my gent. Bad night for a drive, with the rain on your wind-screen, and this lightning blinding you every other second.”
“Hurry up, man, get clear,” said Leyland impatiently. “He’ll be here in a moment. As you come back, you might stop at the Load of Mischief, because we may want a car.”
There was a drumming and a grinding, and the taxi bounded out on to the roadway. Leyland and Pulteney drew back behind the lorry, and waited for the sound of a footfall. They heard the hoot of the taxi as it passed the turning at the bridge; they heard the scrape as it changed gears a little late on the hill road; then the noise died down, and there was silence. Two flashes of lightning, with the thunder following quick on them; then silence again. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and still they sat on in the half-darkness. Leyland’s mind was in a whirl of agitation. Granted that Brinkman had taken some circuitous route, to avoid observation, was it likely that he should take so long as this? He had had time to carry his luggage all round the township by now. . . . Suddenly, from up the street, came a sound of running footsteps. Leyland gripped his revolver and waited with drawn breath.
Chapter XX.
How Bredon Spent the Evening
Bredon had undoubtedly secured the best occupation for the evening. For two whole days he had missed the feeling of cards between his hands, and now he returned with a great hunger to his favourite pastime. True, the circumstances were not ideal. It was thoughtless of Leyland to have insisted on his sitting so close to the window; there was, fortunately, a window-seat, but not generous enough in its proportions to secure a convenient lay-out of the cards. The rows, instead of lying flat, had to climb over downs and gullies in the faded chintz; the result was an occasional avalanche, and a corresponding loss of temper. In an ideal world, Bredon reflected, you would have a large building like a racquet-court to play patience in, and you would wheel yourself up and down between the rows in an invalid’s chair.
There was a soft rustle at the door, and Angela came in. “Oo, I’ve been feeling so nice and stealthy,” she said. “Mr. Eames and I crept back down the lane like burglars. It was better than a cinema, I can tell you! We dodged round the privet-hedge, and came in through the back of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen. And I thought the back stairs would never stop creaking. Did you hear me coming up?”
“I can’t say I did. But you see, I was otherwise engaged. To a man like Brinkman, on the alert for every noise, your progress probably sounded like a charge of cavalry. You’re sure you shut the door properly? I need hardly say that a sudden draught would be a disaster to all my best hopes. A little knitting is indicated for you, Angela, to steady the mind.”
“Don’t you talk too much. If Brinky came out and saw your lips moving it might worry him. Remember, you’re supposed to be alone in the room. Though indeed he probably regards you as potty by now in any case, so it wouldn’t surprise him to see you talking to yourself. Words cannot depict the shame I have felt this evening at having such a lazy husband. Talk of Nero fiddling while Rome was burning!”