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But we found out from Whiffle, whom we met in town, and who had learned it from the guard of the North mail, that one of the last season's pots was still on hand at Biggleswade; so down we trundled in the mail that very evening." "And don't you remember the awful cold I caught that night, being obliged to go outside?" quoth Waggy. "Ah, and so you did, my dear fellow," continued his ally.
"Because I'm not a Mohammedan," retorted Biggleswade. "You might be worse," said Doyne. Presently the dim outline of the little house grew perceptible. A faint light shone from the window. It stood unfenced by any kind of hedge or railing a few feet away from the road in a little hollow beneath some rising ground.
Can't you cut your coat by me, man? Only observe the delicacy of mine." "The corby craw for instance," said I, laughing. "Ever at Biggleswade!" struck in Paul Gelid. "Ever at Biggleswade! Lord love you, Cringle, we have all been at Biggleswade.
"I'm going to a God-forsaken place in Cornwall called Trehenna," said he. "That's odd; so am I," croaked Professor Biggleswade. He was a little, untidy man with round spectacles, a fringe of greyish beard and a weak, rasping voice, and he knew more of Assyriology than any man, living or dead.
"My wife had no child," said McCurdie. "I've avoided women all my life," said Biggleswade. "And I've been too busy to think of them. God forgive me," said Doyne. The history of the next two hours was one that none of the three men ever cared to touch upon. They did things blindly, instinctively, as men do when they come face to face with the elemental.
The three men looked at one another. Suddenly McCurdie shivered and drew his fur coat around him. "I'll thank you," said he, "to shut that window." "It is shut," said Doyne. "It's just uncanny," said McCurdie, looking from one to the other. "What?" asked Doyne. "Nothing, if you didn't feel it." "There did seem to be a sudden draught," said Professor Biggleswade.
Then McCurdie rose and met Biggleswade's eyes staring at him through the great round spectacles, and Biggleswade turned and met the eyes of Doyne. A pulsation like the beating of wings stirred the air. The three wise men shivered with a queer exaltation. Something strange, mystical, dynamic had happened. It was as if scales had fallen from their eyes and they saw with a new vision.
McCurdie fretted and shook his fist in the direction of Trehenna. "And when we get there we have still a twenty miles' motor drive to Foullis Castle. It's a fool name and we're fools to be going there." "I shall die of bronchitis," wailed Professor Biggleswade. "A man dies when it is appointed for him to die," said Lord Doyne, in his tired way; and he went on smoking long black cigars.
The road surface was good, the car running like a clock, and on the level, open highway out of Biggleswade through Tempsford and Eaton Socon along to Buckden the speed-indicator was registering thirty-five and even forty miles an hour. I was anxious to get to Barnack before dark; therefore, regardless of any police-traps that might be set, I "let her rip."
"Good Lord," said he, "it's twelve o'clock." "Christmas morning," said Biggleswade. "A strange Christmas," mused Doyne. McCurdie put up his hand. "There it is again! The beating of wings." And they listened like men spellbound.
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