"Right away," I said. "Bank first; and then slap down through the East End."
And, with a triumphant toot, we slid off upon our journey.
CHAPTER XIII
It was just about half-past four when we entered the outskirts of Woodford. The car had gone well enough; indeed, except for a slight collision with a farm-cart in the neighbourhood of Chelmsford, our journey down had been a monotonous success. We pulled up at the Plough, an old-fashioned two-storey inn in the centre of the town, which boasted a red-and-white notice-board proclaiming its possession of a "Garage."
"This looks all right, Billy," I said "If Maurice's place isn't too far away, you'd better put up here."
We ran the car into the yard, and then climbed out, leaving our luggage in the back, and made our way into the bar. There were two men sitting in the corner, talking to each other, and a middle-aged lady presiding over the drinks.
I took off my hat to her, and ordered a couple of whiskies.
"Do you happen to know," I asked, "where Ashton is—Mr. Maurice Furnivall's place?"
"Ashton!" she repeated. "Now, I've heard the name: it's quite close here somewhere. I expect the Coroner could tell you. Mr. Rowe, the gentleman wants to know where Ashton is."