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It seemed to imply an almost child-like wonder that she should ask that there could possibly be any other reason for his presence. But it failed to propitiate Magda in the slightest degree. She felt intensely annoyed that anyone from the outside world from her world of London should have intruded upon her seclusion at Ashencombe, nor could she imagine how Davilof had discovered her retreat.
Since the day she and Gillian had left Ashencombe she had heard nothing of Storran or his wife. No least scrap of news relating to them had come her way. In the ordinary course of events it was hardly likely that it would. The circles of their respective lives did not overlap each other. And Magda had made no effort to discover what had happened at Stockleigh after she had left there.
The driver swished his whip negligently above the animal's broad back, but presumably more with the idea of keeping off the flies than with any hope of accelerating his speed. There would be no other train to meet at Ashencombe until the down mail, due four hours later, so why hurry?
The train steamed fussily out of Ashencombe station, leaving Magda, Gillian, and Coppertop, together with sundry trunks and suitcases, in undisputed possession of the extremely amateurish-looking platform. Magda glanced about her with amusement. "What a ridiculous little wayside place!" she exclaimed. "It has a kind of 'home-made' appearance, hasn't it?
She was very quiet and self-contained, and busied herself in making the necessary arrangements for their departure, sending a boy into Ashencombe to order the wagonette from the Crown and Bells to take them to the station whilst she herself laboriously made out the account that was owing.
His voice sounded forced, and Magda waited with a strange feeling of tension for him to continue. "I want to ask you a question," he went on in the same carefully measured accents. "Did you ever stay at a place called Stockleigh Stockleigh Farm at Ashencombe?" Stockleigh!
"Still I don't know where this particular paradise is which you've selected," returned Gillian patiently. "It's at the back of beyond a tiny village in Devonshire called Ashencombe. I just managed to find it on the Ordnance map with a magnifying glass! The farm itself is called Stockleigh and is owned and farmed by some people named Storran. The answer to my letter was signed Dan Storran.
"I think it would depend upon who my neighbours were whether I liked it or nor," he returned, meeting Magda's glance challengingly over the top of June's head, bent above the teacups. "I feel sure I should like it here. And there is a charming little inn at Ashencombe where one might stop." Gillian divined that a veiled passage of arms between Magda and the musician underlay the light discussion.
Only the eyes of periwinkle-blue remained to remind Gillian of the splendid young giant she had known at Ashencombe and even they were changed and held the cynical weariness of a man who has eaten of Dead Sea fruit and found it bitter to the taste. There were other changes, too.
You'd hardly expect a real bona fide train to stop here!" "This your luggage, miss?" A porter or, to be accurate, the porter, since Ashencombe boasted but one addressed her abruptly. From a certain inimical gleam in his eye Magda surmised that he had overheard her criticism. "Yes." She nodded smilingly. "Is there a trap of any kind to meet us?"
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