Part 4 (1/2)

”Well no, it ain't nothing to me, to be sure, though I must say as Benny's one after my own heart. The girls he do know, and mostly after 'em when the sun's gone down. Would it be the young lady at Bristol this time, or another? He wus took right bad down in Wilts.h.i.+re larst time I heard of 'im, but perhaps he's cured hisself drinking of the waters. Anyway, it ain't nothing to me, for I'm off to Margate to-morrow.”

He waited for me to speak, but seeing that I was bent on reading my paper, made no further remark until his job was done. When next I saw him it was at eleven o'clock on the following day, just as I was driving the car round to ”Benny's” to take the old boy down to Watford as he wished. Jumping on the step, the lad put a funny question:

”You're a good sort,” he said. ”Will you forward this bit of a telegram to me from any place you chance to stop at to-night?”

”Why, what's up now?” I asked.

”Nothing much, but my old uncle won't let me go, and I want to take Ellen to Margate for the day. This telegram says mother's ill and wants me. Will you send it through and put in the name of the place where you stop to-night?”

I said that I would, and sticking the sixpence inside my glove and the form into my pocket, I thought no more about it, and drove straight away to Benny's. The old boy was dressed fit to marry the whole Gaiety ballet, white frock suit, white hat, and a rose as big as a full-blown tomato in his b.u.t.ton-hole. To the valet he gave his directions in a voice that could have been heard half down the street. He was going to Watford, and would return in a week.

”Mind,” he cried, ”I'm staying at the King's Arms, and you can send my letters down there.” Then he waved his hand to me, and we set off.

The road to Watford via Edgware is traps from end to end, and, well as the White was going, I did not dare to let her out. It was just after half-past eleven when we left town, and about a quarter to one when we dropped down the hill into Watford town. Here ”Benny” leant over and spoke to me.

”Shan't lunch here,” he cried, as though the idea had come to him suddenly; ”get on to St. Albans or to Hatfield if you like. The Red Lion will do me--drive on there and don't hurry.”

I made no answer, but drove quietly through the town, and so by the old high road to St. Albans and thence to Hatfield. Truth to tell, the car interested me far more than old Benny or his plans. She was steaming beautifully, and I had six hundred pounds' pressure all the time.

While that was so I didn't care the turn of a nut whether old Benny lunched at Watford or at Edinburgh, and as for his adventure with the girl--well, you couldn't expect me to go talking about another man's good luck. In fact, I had forgotten all about it long before we were at Hatfield, and when we had lunched and the old chap suddenly remembered that he would like to spend the night at Newmarket, I was not so surprised--for this is the motorist's habit all the world over, and there's the wonder of the motor-car, that, whether you wish to sleep where you are or a hundred miles distant, she'll do the business for you and make no complaint about it.

Perhaps you will say that I ought to have been surprised, ought to have guessed that this man was up to no good and turned back to the nearest police station. It's easy to be a prophet after the event; and between what a man ought to do and what he does do on any given occasion, there is often a pretty considerable margin when it comes to the facts. I drove Benny willingly, not thinking anything at all about the matter.

When he stopped in the town of Royston and said he would take a cup of tea with a cork to it, I thought it just the sort of thing such a man would do. And I was ready myself for a cigarette and a stroll round--for sitting all that time in the car makes a man's legs stiff, and no mistake about it. But I wasn't away more than ten minutes, and when I got back to the hotel ”Benny” was already fuming at the door.

”Where have you been to?” he asked in a voice unlike his own--the voice of a man who knows ”what's what” and will see that he gets it. ”Why weren't you with the car?”

”Been to the telegraph office,” said I quietly, for no bl.u.s.ter is going to uns.h.i.+p me--not much.

”Telegraph office!” and here his face went white as a sheet, ”what the devil did you go there for?”

”What people usually go for, sir--to send a telegram.”

We looked each other full in the face for a moment, and I could see he was sorry he had spoken.

”I suppose you wanted to let your friends know,” he put it to me. I said it was just that--for such was the shortest way out of it.

”Then get the car out at once and keep to the Newmarket Road. I shall sleep at the Randolph Arms to-night.”

I made no answer and we got away again. But, for all that, I thought a lot, and all the time the White was flying along that fine bit of road, I was asking myself why Benny turned pale when he heard I had sent a telegram. Was this business with the girl, then, something which might bring trouble on us both? Was he the man he represented himself to be?

Those were the questions I could not answer, and they were still in my head when we reached the village of Whittlesford and Benny suddenly ordered me to stop.

”This looks a likely inn,” he said, pointing to a pretty little house on the right-hand side of the road; ”I think we might stop the night here, lad. They'll give us a good bed and a good gla.s.s of whisky, anyway, and what does a man want more? Run the car into the yard and wait while I talk to them. You won't die if we don't get to Newmarket to-night, I suppose?”

I said that it was all one to me, and put the car into the yard. The inn was a beauty, and I liked the look of it. Perhaps Benny's new manner disarmed me; he was as mild as milk just then, and as affable as a commercial with a sample in his bag. When he appeared again he had the landlord with him, and he told me he was going to stop.

”Get a good dinner into you, lad, and then come and talk to me,” he said, putting a great paw on my shoulder, and leering apishly. ”We mayn't go to bed to-night, after all, for, to tell you the truth, I don't like the colour of their sheets. You wouldn't mind sitting up, I daresay, not supposing--well, that there was a ten-pound note hanging to it?”

I opened my eyes at this.

”A ten-pound note, sir?”

”Yes, for robbing you of your bed. Didn't you tell me you were a wonder at night driving. Well, I want to see what stuff you're made of.”