“They’re going back again, it seems,” I remarked to Gibbs.
“No, sir. I saw their man this morning. They’re going to Bristol. He’s heard from ’is master that it’s all right. The young gentleman and the lady are his master’s friends, after all—even though they’re such a queer pair,” and then he added: “Did you think of startin’ this morning, sir?”
“Yes. As soon as you are ready.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Back to Swanage.”
We ran across Devon and Dorset at a somewhat lower speed to what we had travelled when overtaking the 40 “Mercédès.” Gibbs had no desire to put in an appearance before any local bench. Indeed nowadays lit is useless to make an appearance. So prejudiced are magistrates, and such hard swearing is there on the part of the police, that motorists must pay up cheerfully. There is no justice for the pioneers of locomotion.
We returned by another road, which proved better than that by which we had come, and just before eleven at night I descended from the car at the “Lion,” and after some supper with the fat genial landlord, who took a deep interest in my journey and hardly credited that I had been into Cornwall and back, I went up to the room I had previously occupied.
Tired after the heat and dust of the road I slept well, but was up betimes, and at half-past nine walked out to the Manor House.
A maid-servant came to the door in response to my ring. “Mr Miller and the young lady have gone away, sir,” the girl replied to my inquiry. “They went up to London yesterday.”
“Are they staying in London?” I asked eagerly. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”