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“I'm awfully sorry, old man———”
“Don’t mention it. I could have pulled up for a feed if I had wanted one. Good-night.”
The car crept forward.
“Come over in the morning, Roy, will you? I’ll fix up with you then.”
“Suits me. I’ll be over about ten.”
“Good-night, Roy, old man.”
Harley held out his hand, and the driver took it rather diffidently.
“You’ve been a Briton, Roy. I’ve realised that, but I’ve been rather short on words lately. Sorry to have given you all this trouble———”
“Forget it, Mr. Harley. Go and have a good sleep, It will do you all the good in the world. I’ll see you to-morrow. Be careful with that gun.”
“I will. Good-bye.”
Roy looked back as he rounded the corner of the street. He could just distinguish Harley standing still upon the kerb.
“‘Good-bye,’ is it?” he muttered. “What sort of a goat does he think I am?”
He drove to the bottom of the hill, stopped his car, and alighted.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Patricia Weybourn sat up in bed and listened intently. She had not been sleeping well of late, and the faintest unusual sound disturbed her.
She heard a car stop outside the gate, the opening of a car door and its closing; and then—the voice of James Harley!
Her heart seemed to miss a beat. A feeling of panic seized her. She caught her breath sharply, clutched the sheet to her breast with a convulsive movement of fear, and felt the blood draining from her face, leaving it peculiarly cold.