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Updated: September 17, 2025
"I say, Windomshire, what's the name of that pretty governess over at Thursdale's?" asked the busy bore. "Saw her this morning." The Englishman looked down and flecked the ashes from his cigarette before answering. "Miss Courtenay," he responded. "She's a corking pretty girl." Windomshire went through the unnecessary act of flecking ashes again, but said nothing in reply.
"Go ahead anything I can do," said the other, blankly. Windomshire continued in lowered tones: "Deucedly awkward, but I forgot my bags at Fenlock. I see you've got yours. Would you mind lending me a fresh shirt and a collar, old chap?" "Gladly," cried Joe, very much relieved. "Will you take them now?" starting to open his bag. Windomshire hastily interposed. "I'd rather not, old chap.
"Miss Courtenay, too," murmured Eleanor, peeking under his arm. "Yes, by Jove," announced the harassed Englishman, at bay, "Windomshire and Miss Courtenay." There was a long silence a tableau, in fact. "Well, why doesn't some one say something? You've got us, don't you know." Eleanor Thursdale was the first to find words. She was faint with humiliation, but strong with the new resolve.
We'll get inside and light up. I can open the door from that side, too. Come on follow me." They turned the corner and followed the path so lately taken by Windomshire and Anne. As they came to the back of the church they were startled and not a little alarmed by the sound of sudden scurrying and a well- defined imprecation, but it was too dark for them to distinguish any one.
Far out in the little grove Derby and his old companion watched the operations of the church-breakers, the sickly glare of Carpenter's lantern as it stood upon the edge of the rain barrel affording an unholy light for the occasion. Windomshire and Anne, crouching behind a stack of old benches, looked on in amazement. Mr.
Couldn't resist, don't you know. She's working beautifully." "There's one thing about a Mercedes that I don't like and you don't find it in a Panhard. I've got a Panhard and " Dobson was saying with all the arrogance of a motor fiend, when Mrs. Scudaway ruthlessly and properly cut him off. "We know all about your Panhard, Dobby. Don't bother. Is Eleanor really ill, Mr. Windomshire?"
Just at that instant Windomshire, despite most heroic efforts to prevent the catastrophe, sneezed with a violence that shook his entire frame. "Sh! don't speak," hissed the startled minister. "We are being watched. That was unmistakably a sneeze." "I can't see any one," whispered Mr. Van Trader, excitedly. "I see just as well in the dark as I do in the light, too." "Some one is coming. See!
"Well, then, we ought not to stand here all night," groaned Joe, his ears open to catch the sound of the locomotive's whistle. There was no time to be lost. "I'll I'll try to back her out," shouted Windomshire. Eleanor whispered something shrilly and anxiously from the tonneau, and Joe called out instantly: "Who is ill?" "Mrs. Mrs. Smith," replied the other, bravely.
Neither of them noticed the vague figure which rushed across the platform and into the second car below. "Where's the luggage car?" shouted Windomshire to the porter. "The what?" "I mean the baggage van." "Way up front, sir. Where they're puttin' on the trunks, sir." Swinging his travelling bag almost at arm's length, the long Englishman raced forward.
"Good Lord!" gasped Joe, panic-stricken. "It's Mr. Windomshire," whispered Eleanor, in consternation. Before she realised what was happening her companion lifted her bodily over the back of the seat and deposited her in the bed of the tonneau. "Hide, dearest," he whispered. "Get under the storm blankets. He must not see you! I'll I'll bluff it out some way."
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