"Rumour?"
" Are they witches?"
"Are they supposed to be?" said Robert lightly.
"There's a strong support for the belief in the countryside, I understand," Carley said, his bright black eyes resting for a moment on Robert's with intention, and then going on to wander over the lounge with their habitual quick interrogation.
Robert understood that the little man was offering him, tacitly, information that he thought ought to be useful to him.
"Ah well," Robert said, "since entertainment came into the country with the cinema, God bless it, an end has been put to witch-hunting."
"Don't you believe it. Give these midland morons a good excuse and they'll witch-hunt with the best. An inbred crowd of degenerates, if you ask me. Here's your old boy. Well, I'll be seeing you."
It was one of Robert's chief attractions that he was genuinely interested in people and in their troubles, and he listened to old Mr. Wynyard's rambling story with a kindness that won the old man's gratitude-and added, although he was unaware of it, a hundred to the sum that stood against his name in the old farmer's will-but as soon as their business was over he made straight for the hotel telephone.
There were far too many people about, and he decided to use the one in the garage over in Sin Lane. The office would be shut by now, and anyhow it was further away. And if he telephoned from the garage, so his thoughts went as he strode across the street, he would have his car at hand if she-if they asked him to come out and discuss the business further, as they very well might, as they almost certainly would-yes, of course they would want to discuss what they could do to discredit the girl's story, whether there was to be a case or not-he had been so relieved over Hallam's news that he had not yet come round in his mind to considering what-
"Evening, Mr. Blair," Bill Brough said, oozing his large person out of the narrow office door, his round calm face bland and welcoming. "Want your car?"