Jobling groaned.
"I'm goin' barmy!" he muttered. "Look 'ere, sir, as a great favor, like, might I ask yer not to tell 'em in the village what I asked yer?"
"Betcher life!" answered Alf cheerily, much relieved at this unexpected stroke of good fortune. Then, leaving the unfortunate constable to collect his property and what remained to him of his wits, Alf set out for Dunwater, growing at every step more convinced that, whatever clothes might be correct for an afternoon call on a hot day, his present get-up was hopelessly wrong.
As he passed through the village he found himself the object of much interest—of an unmistakably hostile kind. On every side unfriendly faces scowled at him. Knots of people were standing in the street, and as he passed them he heard a confused medley of remarks not openly intended for his ear, but evidently to his address.
"Spy!" said somebody.
"German!" supplemented several others.
"Food 'oarder!"
Finally as he passed the post-office Mrs. Rudd's voice might have been heard through the open door upraised in some denunciation of which Higgins caught only two words:
" ... Scotland Yard...."
Alf was devoutly thankful when at last the village was passed and the road to Dunwater lay before him. As he plodded along the hot road he pondered dully what sinister events those two words "Scotland Yard" might portend. He was worried for a moment; but then his arrival in sight of the Dunwater Park gates drove all worries other than those of etiquette from his mind. What ought he to do when he arrived? What ought he to say? How did one address baronets? He wanted to make a really memorable first impression on Isobel's father—but how? Of course, if he had left himself to be guided by Mustapha's ideas, his first impression would have been only too memorable.