He had friends to stay with him sometimes, mostly men. Once or twice he had had foreign gentlemen among his visitors—gentlemen who had been in the post-office and could not speak English.
“My sister was ’ousemaid there till last Michaelmas,” she added. “So I’ve often been up to the ‘Glen’. When old Mrs Auker had it she used to ’ave us girls of the Friendly Society there to tea on the lawn.”
“I think that a friend of mine comes to visit Mr Gordon-Wright sometimes. His name is Miller. Do you remember him?”
“Mr Miller—a tall middle-aged gentleman. Of course, sir. ’E was here in the spring. I remember the name because ’e and Mr Wright gave a treat to the school children.”
“Was a lady with him—a young lady?”
“Yes, sir. His daughter, Miss Lucie.”
The girl knew little else, except, as she declared, Mr Gordon-Wright was a rich man and “a thorough gentleman.”
An hour later, while I was out in the yard of the inn watching Gibbs going round the car, we suddenly heard the whirr of an approaching motor, and down the street flashed the blue car which we had pursued so hotly on the previous day. It carried the same occupants, with the addition of one person—Mr Gordon-Wright.
The latter, in peaked cap and motor-coat, was driving, while behind were the two strangers, with Mr Murray and Ella.
The latter caught sight of me as she flashed past. Our eyes met for an instant, and then she was lost to me in a cloud of dust—lost for ever.