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Prettilove is an inoffensive little rabbit of a man. Marigold might sit for the model of a war-scarred mercenary of the middle ages, and when he called a man a liar he did it with accentuaton and vehemence. No wonder Prettilove jumped.
Two or three passers-by halted wonderingly and Prettilove, the hairdresser, moved across the pavement from his shop door where he had been taking the air. "My good fellow," said I, "you have lost your temper and are talking drivel. Kindly unhand my donkey." Prettilove, who has a sycophantic sense of humour, burst into a loud guffaw.
'Those repairs are very pressing. 'All right, says the Major, 'jump in. Then he says: 'That'll do, Marigold. Good-night. And he drives off with Mr. Gedge. Well, if Mr. Gedge and Prettilove know he's here, then everyone knows it." "Was Gedge inside the drive?" I asked. The drive was a small semicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate. "He was standing by the car waiting," said Marigold.
Outside Prettilove the hairdresser's I held quite a little reception, and instead of moving me on for blocking the traffic, as any of his London colleagues would have done, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of a butcher's boy formed part of the assembly. When I got to the Market Square, I saw Sir Anthony Fenimore's car standing outside the Town Hall.
Connor married I needn't tell you that; it was common knowledge and so their sudden meeting was awkward." "Mrs. Marigold has already explained, sir," said he. I chuckled inwardly all the way to my bedroom. Prettilove was shaving me this morning and told me the Major was here.
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