“Yes—no!” He looked about him uneasily. “All right, you go. It’s straight up the hill, you can’t miss it.”
I took up my hat, and was going, when he called me back.
“I say—do you mind—I think I’d rather go after all. I feel rather rotten. I’ll be better in the fresh air.”
“Now, look here,” I said firmly. “We can’t stay shilly-shallying all night. If you don’t like staying in the house, you’d better go yourself. But make up your mind, because the quicker we get on to somebody the better. Get the police and they’ll probably be able to find a doctor. And you’ll have to give them Mrs. Harrison’s address.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Yes—I suppose—I suppose—they’d better break it to her.”
“Somebody’s got to. It’s a beastly business, but you don’t know any relations you could get hold of, do you?”
“No. Very well. I’ll see to it. Sure you won’t come with me? You don’t mind staying?”
“The sooner you go, the shorter time I’ll have to stay,” I reminded him.
“Right-ho!” he paused, appeared about to say something, then repeated “right-oh!” and went out, shutting the door behind him.
Three miles uphill in the dark—it would take him close on the hour, certainly. Then he had to knock somebody up, find a telephone, if there was one, get on to the police—say half an hour for that. Then, it all depended whether there was an available car in the village—whether he came straight back, or waited for the officials, who would come, presumably, from Bovey Tracey. I need not, I thought, expect anything to happen under an hour and three-quarters or so. I suddenly