"Good-bye, Mr Donovan. I'm going away on Saturday to spend a week-end with my friend, the Vicar of Chilcombe, on the Cotswold Hills, you know. My nerves are rather run down, unpleasant incidents seem to be dogging me; the air there is very fine, I shall take some good country walks."
"Ah! ye need a rest. Ye've been working very hard, Mr Darwen. And may the devil take ye," Mr Donovan added under his breath as he turned away.
Similar interviews Darwen had that day with several other councillors, and impressed on them all that he needed a friend on the council. Two days later he left for Chilcombe; Carstairs saw him off. "Remember me to all the people," he said.
"I will, old chap, and you'll hustle 'em on with the work, won't you?"
They shook hands cordially.
On Sunday Carstairs called on Mrs Darwen. She was watching for him at the window, and came out to open the door herself.
"Oh, Mr Carstairs, she's gone, she left last night."
"Gone!" Carstairs repeated with a disappointment he made no endeavour to conceal.
"A small boy came and called her away to her people. They're encamped about ten miles away from here, and her mother is very ill."
Carstairs sat down. "Her mother," he repeated absently. "That old gipsy woman, the Queen of the gipsies, she told my fortune, no, it was the kid. She said, 'You're a winner, you'll always win.' Lord, I haven't won much yet. I'm too slow. Mrs Darwen, I shall have to hustle."