"Oh! it's all perfectly true, in effect," I said. "I can't go into
details. As a matter of fact, all the Jervaises' suspicions came about as
a result of our accidental meeting on the hill last night. I said nothing
about it to them, you understand; and then they found out that I hadn't
slept in the house, and Miss Tattersall discovered by accident that I knew
you by sight--that was when you came up to the house this morning--and
after that everything I've ever done since infancy has somehow gone to
prove that my single ambition in life has always been to help you in
abducting Brenda Jervaise. Also, I wanted to fight Frank Jervaise an hour
or two ago in the avenue. So, my dear Banks, have pity on me and help me
to get back to London."
Banks grinned. "No getting back to London to-night," he said. "Last train
went at 3.19."
"Well, isn't there some hotel in the neighbourhood?" I asked.
He hesitated, imaginatively searching the county for some hotel worthy of
receiving me.
"There's nothing decent nearer than Godbury," he said. "Twenty-three
miles. There's an inn at Hurley of a sort. There's no town there to speak
of, you know. It's only a junction."
"Oh! well, I'll risk the inn at Hurley for one night," I said.
"What about your things?" he asked.
"Blast!" was my only comment.
"Rummest go I ever heard of," Banks interjected thoughtfully. "You don't
mean as they've actually _turned you out?_"
"Well, no, not exactly," I explained. "But I couldn't possibly go back
there."
"What about writing a note for your things?" he suggested. "I'd take it
up."
"And ask them to lend me the motor?"
"I don't expect they'd mind," he said.
"Perhaps not. Anything to get rid of me," I returned. "But I'm not going
to ask them any favours. I don't mind using the bally thing--they owe me
that--but I'm not going to ask them for it."
"Must have been a fair old bust up," he commented, evidently curious still
about my quarrel at the Hall.
"I told you that it ended with my wanting to fight Frank Jervaise," I
reminded him.
He grinned again. "How did he get out of it?" he asked.
"What makes you think he wanted to get out of it?" I retorted.
He measured me for a moment with his eye before he said, "Mr. Frank isn't
the fighting sort. I've seen him go white before now, when I've took the
corner a bit sharp." He paused a moment before adding, "But they're all a
bit like that."
"Nervous at dangerous corners," I commented, sharpening his image for him.
"Blue with funk," he said.
It occurred to me that possibly some hint of the family taint in Brenda
had influenced, at the last moment, the plan of her proposed elopement;
but I said nothing of that to Banks.
"I'd better leave my things," I said, returning to the subject which was
of chief importance to me. You take me to that inn at Hurley. If I arrive
in a motor, they'll take me in all right, even though I haven't any
luggage. I'll invent some story as we go."
"They'd take you _in_," Banks replied thoughtfully. "'Tisn't hardly more
than a public house, really."
I thought that some strain of the gentleman's servant in him was concerned
with the question of the entertainment proper to my station.
"It's only for one night," I remarked.
"Oh! yes," he said, obviously thinking of something else.
"Too far for you to go?" I asked.
He glanced at his wrist watch. "Quarter past five," he said. "It'd take me
the best part of two hours to get there and back--the road's none too
good."
"You don't want to go?" I said.
"Well, no, honestly I don't," he replied. "The fact is I want to see Mr.
Jervaise again." He smiled as he added, "My little affair isn't settled
yet by a good bit, you see."
I sheered away from that topic; chiefly, I think, because I wanted to
avoid any suggestion of pumping him. When you have recently been branded
as a spy, you go about for the next few days trying not to feel like one.
"Isn't there any place in the village I could go to?" I asked.
He shook his head. "There's one pub--a sort of beerhouse--but they don't
take people in," he said.
"No lodgings?" I persisted.
"The Jervaises don't encourage that sort of thing," he replied. "Afraid of
the place getting frippery. I've heard them talking about it in the car.
And as they own every blessed cottage in the place...." He left the
deduction to my imagination, and continued with the least touch of
bashfulness, "You wouldn't care to come to us, I suppose?"
"To the Home Farm?" I replied stupidly. I was absurdly embarrassed. If I
had not chanced to see that grouping in the wood before lunch, I should
have jumped at the offer. But I knew that it must have been Miss Banks who
had seen me--spying. Jervaise had had his back to me. And she would
probably, I thought, take his view of the confounded accident. She would
be as anxious to avoid me as I was to avoid her. Coming so unexpectedly,
this invitation to the Farm appeared to me as a perfectly impossible
suggestion.
Banks, naturally, misinterpreted my embarrassment.
"I suppose it would put you in the wrong, as it were--up at the Hall," he
said. "Coming to us after that row, I mean, 'd look as if what they'd been
saying was all true."
"I don't care a hang about _that_," I said earnestly. In my relief at
being able to speak candidly I forgot that I was committing myself to an
explanation; and Banks inevitably wandered into still more shameful
misconceptions of my implied refusal.
"Only a farm, of course..." he began.
"Oh! my dear chap," I interposed quickly. "Do believe me, I'd far sooner
stay at the Home Farm than at Jervaise Hall."
He looked at me with rather a blank stare of inquiry.
"Well, then?" was all he found to say.