He plucked out a watch and studied it. “You’re the right sort of fellow,” he

said. “I can spare a quarter of an hour, and my house is two minutes off. I’ll

see you clothed and fed and snug in bed. Where’s your kit, by the way? Is it in

the burn along with the car?”

 

“It’s in my pocket,” I said, brandishing a toothbrush. “I’m a colonial and

travel light.”

 

“A colonial,” he cried. “By Gad, you’re the very man I’ve been praying for. Are

you by any blessed chance a Free Trader?”

 

“I am,” said I, without the foggiest notion of what he meant.

 

He patted my shoulder and hurried me into his car. Three minutes later we drew

up before a comfortable-looking shooting-box set among pine trees, and he

ushered me indoors. He took me first to a bedroom and flung half a dozen of his

suits before me, for my own had been pretty well reduced to rags. I selected a

loose blue serge, which differed most conspicuously from my former garments, and

borrowed a linen collar. Then he haled me to the dining-room, where the remnants

of a meal stood on the table, and announced that I had just five minutes to

feed. “You can take a snack in your pocket, and we’ll have supper when we get

back. I’ve got to be at the Masonic Hall at eight o’clock, or my agent will comb

my hair.”

 

I had a cup of coffee and some cold ham, while he yarned away on the hearthrug.