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Updated: May 19, 2025
"We can't do anything more, can we?" "Nothing. And here's the matron with a message." The message was from the mayor of Dansworth. "Situation well in hand. No more trouble feared. Best thanks." "All right!" said Buntingford. He turned smiling to Helena. "Now we'll go home and get some dinner!" The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind. Once more Buntingford got into the car beside his ward.
Its young men guests, whom the Dansworth rioters would probably have classed as parasites and idlers battening on the toil of the people, had in fact earned their holiday by a good many months of hard work, whether in the winding up of the war, or the re-starting of suspended businesses, or the renewed activities of the bar; and they were taking it whole-heartedly.
Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrill telephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford's desk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver. "Hullo!" "It's a message from Dansworth," said Cynthia, springing to her feet. "They've sent for him."
In the first place, since her Dansworth adventure, Helena had found something to do to think about other than quarrelling with "Cousin Philip."
I want to burn the doctors, because some of the medical boards have been beasts to some of my friends; the soldiers over at Dansworth want to burn the town, because they haven't been made enough of; the Triple Alliance want to burn up the country to cook their roast pig and as for you, Helena "
She had provoked and interested him before that but rather as a raw self-willed child a "flapper" whose extraordinary beauty gave her a distinction she had done nothing to earn. But every moment in that Dansworth day was clear in memory: the grave young face behind the steering-wheel, the perfect lips compressed, the eyes intent upon their task, the girl's courage and self-command.
"What was it brought her to reason so suddenly?" said Cynthia, seeking light at last on a problem that had long puzzled her. "Two things, I imagine. First that she was the better man of us all, that day of the Dansworth riot. She could drive my big car, and none of the rest of us could! That seemed to put her right with us all. And secondly the reports of that abominable trial. She told me so.
Her guardian, with a shrug of the shoulders, walked to his writing-table, and wrote a hurried note. "My dear Geoffrey I will send to meet you at Dansworth to-morrow by the train you name. Helena is here very mad and very beautiful. I hope you will stay over Sunday. Yours ever, Buntingford." "He shall have his chance anyway," he thought, "with the others. A fair field, and no pulling."
Meanwhile I had been obliged to go to a diocesan meeting at Dansworth and I left my sister and Dr. Ramsay in charge of her, suggesting that as there was evidently something unusual in the case nothing should be said to anybody outside the house till I came back and she was able to talk to us.
Geoffrey French, Captain Lodge, Peter, and Julian Horne, were in a few instants grouped round their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind. "The Dansworth mob's out of hand," said Buntingford briefly. "They've set fire to another building, and the police are hard pressed. They want specials at once. Who'll come? I've just had a most annoying message from my chauffeur.
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