a word with you,
Major Boyce?' says he. 'No, you can't,' says the Major. 'I think it's
advisable,' says he. 'Those repairs are very pressing.' 'All right,'
says the Major, 'jump in.' Then he says: 'That'll do, Marigold.
Good-night.' And he drives off with Mr. Gedge. Well, if Mr. Gedge and
Prettilove know he's here, then everyone knows it."

"Was Gedge inside the drive?" I asked. The drive was a small
semicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate.

"He was standing by the car waiting," said Marigold. "Now, sir." He
lifted me with his usual cast-iron tenderness into bed and pulled the
coverings over me. "It's a funny time to talk about house repairs at
eleven o'clock, at night," he remarked.

"Nothing is funny in war-time," said I.

"Either nothing or everything," said Marigold. He fussed methodically
about the room, picked up an armful of clothes, and paused by the door,
his hand on the switch.

"Anything more, sir?"

"Nothing, thank you, Marigold."

"Good-night, sir."

The room was in darkness. Marigold shut the door. I was alone.

What the deuce was the meaning of this waylaying of Boyce by Daniel
Gedge?

CHAPTER VII

"Major Boyce has gone, sir," said Marigold, the next morning, as I was
tapping my breakfast egg.

"Gone?" I echoed. Boyce had made no reference the night before to so
speedy a departure.

"By the 8.30 train, sir."

Every train known by a scheduled time at Wellingsford goes to London.
There may be other trains proceeding from the station in the opposite
direction but nobody heeds them. Boyce had taken train to London. I
asked my omniscient sergeant:

"How did you find that out?"

It appeared it was the driver of the Railway Delivery Van. I smiled at
Boyce's ostrich-like faith in the invisibility of his hinder bulk. What
could occur in Wellingsford without it being known at once to vanmen
and postmen and barbers and servants and masters and mistresses? How
could a man hope to conceal his goings and comings and secret actions?
He might just as well expect to take a secluded noontide bath in the
fountain in Piccadilly Circus.

"Perhaps that's why the matter of those repairs was so pressing, sir,"
said Marigold.

"No doubt of it," said I.

Marigold hung about, his finger-tips pushing towards me mustard and
apples and tulips and everything that one does not eat with egg. But it
was no use. I had no desire to pursue the conversation. I continued my
breakfast stolidly and