The Man Who Grew Vegetable Marrows
I told Caroline at lunch that I should be dining at Fernly. She expressed no objection—on the contrary—
“Excellent,” she said. “You’ll hear all about it. By the way, what is the trouble with Ralph?”
“With Ralph?” I said, surprised; “there isn’t any.”
“Then why is he staying at the Three Boars instead of at Fernly Park?”
I did not for a minute question Caroline’s statement that Ralph Paton was staying at the local inn. That Caroline said so was enough for me.
“Ackroyd told me he was in London,” I said. In the surprise of the moment I departed from my valuable rule of never parting with information.
“Oh!” said Caroline. I could see her nose twitching as she worked on this.
“He arrived at the Three Boars yesterday morning,” she said. “And he’s still there. Last night he was out with a girl.”
That did not surprise me in the least. Ralph, I should say, is out with a girl most nights of his life. But I did rather wonder that he chose to indulge in the pastime in King’s Abbot instead of in the gay metropolis.
“One of the barmaids?” I asked.
“No. That’s just it. He went out to meet her. I don’t know who she is.” (Bitter for Caroline to have to admit such a thing.) “But I can guess,”