“I suppose so, but Paula would play it in Iceland.”
“She is good then, I take it?”
“Very good. She’d give you a run, Bannerlee.”
“Oh, Lord, I’m no use any more. What sort of court have you, Crofts?”
“Hard. Too much rain here for anything else.”
While we went our way, I was all alert for signs of the billowing and swelling marauder of last night, and I thought ruefully how a fictional detective finds clues even in bent grass-blades. I kept my eyes wide. We crossed the lawn and passed near the cypress trees where the black-robed creature had disappeared. Surreptitiously I looked for footprints; nothing was distinguishable.
Before reaching the track leading to the pretentious bridge over the tributary stream, we swung left through the bushes and soon came to a knoll full of scaly-red, twisted strawberry trees.
“These are aliens in England,” explained Cosgrove to me, while we wound our way upward through the plantation. “But in my country they are natives. I like nothing better than to loiter among them; they almost make me think I am in old Muckross again. There is one reason why I like your Highglen estate, friend Crofts.”
We found a pleasant clearing there, where we could lie, having a view both of the lawns and of the tennis. The strawberry trees extend thickly beyond the knoll and around the court, which is only a few yards away from Aidenn Water where it comes straight down the middle of the Vale before making quite a detour toward the western escarpment. A doubles match was in progress, and the knot of spectators was too intent on the exchanges to notice us.
“There’s Paula,” indicated Crofts. “Look at that shot! She’s master of us all with the racquet.”