“Never, sir.”
“Quite sure?”
“Positive, sir. The roads about ’ere are not made for cars,” was the old fellow’s reply. “I certainly did see a car one night, about six weeks ago. The man had lost his way an’ was driving straight down to the sea. He wanted to get to Cleethorpes. They were Navy men from the wireless station, I think.”
The old man’s manner and speech had entirely disarmed suspicion, and presently the pair rose, and bidding him good-bye, and urging him to keep a sharp look-out for strangers, they left.
The moment they were safely away, Rodwell emerged from the bedroom, and in a low, apprehensive voice, asked:
“What does all this mean, Tom—eh?”
“Don’t know, sir. That Judd’s been about here constantly of late. ’E’s up to no good, I’m sure. I’ve told you, weeks ago, that I didn’t like the look o’ things—an’ I don’t!”
Rodwell saw that the old fellow was pale and alarmed. He had preserved an impenetrable mask before his two visitors, but now they had gone he was full of fear.
Rodwell, as he stood in the low-pitched little room, recollected certain misgivings which Molly had uttered on the previous night, just before he had left Bruton Street. His first impulse now was to leave the house and slip away across the fen. Yet if he did somebody must certainly see him.
“Shall you get off now, sir?” asked the old man suddenly.