‘He is not one of the regular priests of the temple,’ said Strickland. ‘I think I should peculiarly like to lay my hands on him.’
There was no spring in our gallop on the racecourse that evening. The horses were stale, and moved as though they had been ridden out.
‘The fright after breakfast has been too much for them,’ said Strickland.
That was the only remark he made through the remainder of the ride. Once or twice I think he swore to himself; but that did not count.
We came back in the dark at seven o’clock, and saw that there were no lights in the bungalow. ‘Careless ruffians my servants are!’ said Strickland.
My horse reared at something on the carriage drive, and Fleete stood up under its nose.
‘What are you doing, grovelling about the garden?’ said Strickland.
But both horses bolted and nearly threw us. We dismounted by the stables and returned to Fleete, who was on his hands and knees under the orange-bushes.
‘What the devil’s wrong with you?’ said Strickland.
‘Nothing, nothing in the world,’ said Fleete, speaking very quickly and thickly. ‘I’ve been gardening-botanising you know. The smell of the earth is delightful. I think I’m going for a walk-a long walk-all night.’