But the old lady was equal to the moment.

"And drink," she said, seizing the gla.s.s and swallowing an immense gulp that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.

Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched hand.

"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.

"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would kindly leave by the way you came."

"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your hospitality."

Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of gla.s.s.

The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.

"Once again allow me to thank you for your hospitality," he said.

"Show this person out," said Mrs. Barraclough.

And under the escort of Jane and Flora he was peremptorily bustled off the premises.

"H'm," said Anthony, coming out from behind the piano. "That was a pity."

Mrs. Barraclough was almost in tears.

"Do you think he realised you were hidden there?"

"Vases don't tumble over by themselves, mother dear, and our friend is not a fool." He tapped his teeth with a thumb nail reflectively.

"Yes--yes--yes. We must curtail his activities. Can't have the old viper sending messages. Settle down at the telephone, best of mothers."

"I do wish you would not address me as though I were a sitting hen,"

said Mrs. Barraclough, drawing up a chair to the writing table.

"The telephone, mother, and ask for the police station."

"But the policeman is sure to be out."

"Then talk to his missus."

"That would be impossible, dear, Mrs. Bra.s.sbound----"

But Anthony did not listen to the objection.

"Tell old Bra.s.sbound," said he, "to run in friend Skypilot if he gravitates near the post office."

Mrs. Barraclough picked up the receiver and asked for the police station and while waiting to be connected remarked weakly:

"There is no law to prevent people sending telegrams, dear."

"Then we must make a few to fit the occasion."

"Is that you, Mr. Bra.s.sbound?" said the old lady in answer to a voice on the wire. "It's Mrs. Barraclough speaking. I wonder if you would very kindly arrest a clergyman for me."

"Put a bit more sting in it, mother--ginger."

"Ginger," repeated Mrs. Barraclough into the mouthpiece. "No, no, I didn't mean that. He's grey and elderly."

"Say he pinched something," Anthony prompted.

Mrs. Barraclough nodded.

"I rather fear he has appropriated a cream jug. Yes. I thought perhaps he might send it off from the post office. Thank you. And how is your wife progressing? Yes, of course she is. Yes, I am coming down to see her this evening if I can get away. Goodbye."

"What's wrong with the policeman's missus?" demanded Anthony.

"As you're not a married man, Tony, I shall refuse to tell you," said Mrs. Barraclough in the manner of Queen Victoria.

"Going to see her?"

"I was going to take her this basket of roses and some vegetables, but as----"

"No, no, you take 'em and I'll go down to the village with you in the car and take it on. You won't mind walking home across the fields."

"Anthony," said Mrs. Barraclough seriously. "Is it very real danger you're in?"

"Pretty solid but don't you fret, I'm equal to it."

Flora and Jane came in from the garden.

"We've seen him down the road," they announced.

"Good. Now, look here, everyone, I've wasted a deuce of a lot of time when I ought to have been on the way. Here's the position of affairs.

Flora, you're going to drive me to London."

"Right," said Flora with sparkling eyes.

"Jane! Still got that old service revolver I gave you?"

"Um."

"Keep it handy. Likely enough there'll be a couple of visitors here before long and you've got to detain 'em somehow."

"I'll keep 'em till they grow roots," said Jane stoutly.

"It's a d.a.m.n shame, dragging you into all this, but that bullet did me in as a driver. It's no joke shoving a motor bike along with a bullet through your hand."

"But how did you get the wound, dear?"

As hurriedly as possible he outlined the day's happenings from the moment of landing at Polperro.