Is Mainly about a Woman.
George Macbean had, after a long, sleepless night, made up his mind.
When he descended to breakfast next morning he announced to his uncle his intention of cycling into Rugby, well knowing that the rector had to give a lesson in religious instruction in the village school, and would therefore not be able to accompany him.
So, in determination to meet the Frenchman face to face, to expose him and thus save Mary, even at risk of his own disgrace, he mounted and rode away down the white, dusty highroad.
Instead of going into Rugby, however, he turned off at Lilbourne, and rode over the road along which they had driven the previous evening, to Orton.
Eleven o’clock was certainly a rather unconventional hour for calling, but as he dismounted at the gates and walked his machine up the long, well-kept drive he had already invented an excuse. As he passed the study window he saw within a tall, elderly, grave-faced man in a suit of light grey tweed, and at once recognised that it was His Excellency himself.
In answer to his ring at the door, a young English footman appeared, whereupon he asked—
“Is Count Dubard at home?”
“The count left this morning by the nine o’clock train.”
“Left!” echoed Macbean. “And is he not returning?”