So Rayne had gone to Heathcote in order to telephone to somebody in great urgency—somebody he dare not speak with from Overstow.
As we drove back again, Rayne said:
“Of course, George, you will never breathe a word of this—well, this little contretemps—or of its result. When I’m up against the wall I always hit hard. That’s the only way. I’m not going to be blackmailed!”
“The affair does not concern me,” I replied. “What I hear in your presence I never repeat.”
“I’m glad you appreciate your position,” he answered. “I’m a good employer to those who trust me, but an infernally bad one to those who doubt, who blunder, or who betray me, as you have probably learned,” he said in a hard voice, as we swung into the handsome lodge gates of Overstow.
Just before luncheon Rayne was called to the telephone. I was in the room at the time. He apparently recognized the voice, and scribbled something upon the pad before him.
“Will you repeat that?” he asked. “I want to be quite clear.”
Then he listened again very intently.
“Right! I’ll be with you at ten to-night,” he replied, and then hung up the receiver.
“I must go to London,” he said, turning to me. “You’ll drive me into York, and I can catch the four-thirty up. You stay here and meet that Italian chap to-morrow at six, and tell him that I’m up at Half Moon Street. Give him my address, and ask him to see me there. After you’ve seen him, start in the car for London and carry out the instructions I gave you on Monday.”