“Neither do I. Funny thing about it, it lies just over the shoulder of the Hill from where we are. At sunset, though, it looks quite grand up there, if you can see it.”
“Somehow I’ve noticed that,” I remarked gravely.
“What do you mean?”
“Things look better if you can see them.”
Crofts brushed aside my feeble attempt at leg-pulling. “Seriously, though, Bannerlee, you should have a try at it this evening—from your window, or from outside on the balcony. I’m no good at old stones and that kind of thing, but I do get a thrill when I think of that codger up there sleeping it off. He chose a breezy place to wait for Judgment.”
“I will have a look,” I promised. “I can’t see, though, why this antique gentleman selected that Hill in preference to any one of several others hereabout.” I indicated with my arm. “Why, that one, for instance, or that one, must be a couple of hundred feet higher. Don’t you think so?” I put it to Cosgrove, but he hesitated to commit himself, and Crofts said that I had better ask Miss Lebetwood, if I were too lazy to consult an ordnance map.
“She’s hot stuff at all that, really—very useful.”
I saw Cosgrove give his head a doleful wag.
“Her brother—American army officer—killed,” explained our host. “Before he sailed for France she made him teach her all he knew, apparently. She and he would pore over the maps and plans together, I understand.”
“Yes,” came in Cosgrove with his voice like the great slow tramp of oxen, “she has too many of these unwomanly things in her head, I misdoubt. Photography—”