"It doesn't matter a damn what you want," was the crushing reply. "You don't suppose I'm going to let you be wiped out while you've got a cellar full of port like this?" He paused. "The worst of it is," he added. "I am due at Harwich to-morrow, and they will probably keep me there for at least a week."
"I expect to struggle through a week," I said hopefully. "After all, there's Bascomb and the dog."
He eyed me with some mistrust. "If you take my advice," he said slowly, "you'll be precious careful what you do. Things look devilish ugly, and I know what you're like when there's any chance of a scrap about. I should hate to come back and find you with your throat cut."
"It would be still more annoying for me," I pointed out. "You needn't think I'm going to hunt for trouble. If I see the chance of having a nice little chat with our friend Manning I shall take it, but I shall try to remember that mine's a valuable life, if only for the sake of my friends."
He nodded approvingly, and, glancing at his watch, hoisted himself up from the sofa.
"Time I was off," he announced. "That chap who's waiting for me will be tearing his back hair if I don't come along soon."
We got our caps from the bedroom, and, leaving the house, made our way down to the landing-stage. Satan stalked after us with great dignity, and, following his usual custom, remained standing grimly at attention while we cast off our painter and pushed out from the bank.
"I like that dog," said Bobby. "He looks thoroughly efficient. I put more faith in him than in you or the butler."
"So do I," I said candidly. "And I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Dr. Manning felt the same."
We ran rapidly across to the jetty at Pen Mill, bringing up alongside a timber barge which had just come in on the flood tide. Bobby's appointment was at Beddingfield, a small village half a mile inland, and, having nothing particular to do, I said I would walk with him as far as the top of the hill.