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Chapter 3
IpicturedaflightacrosstheKalaharitoGermanAfrica,thecrackling,parchingdays,thewonderfulblue-velvetnights.Idescribedanattackonmylifeonthevoyagehome,andImadeareallyhorridaffairofthePortlandPlacemurder.“You’relookingforadventure,”Icried;“well,you’vefoundithere.Thedevilsareafterme,andthepoliceareafterthem.It’saracethatImeantowin.”
“ByGod!”hewhispered,drawinghisbreathinsharply,“itisallpureRiderHaggardandConanDoyle.”
“Youbelieveme,”Isaidgratefully.
“OfcourseIdo,”andheheldouthishand.“Ibelieveeverythingoutofthecommon.Theonlythingtodistrustisthenormal.”
Hewasveryyoung,buthewasthemanformymoney.
“Ithinkthey’reoffmytrackforthemoment,butImustliecloseforacoupleofdays.Canyoutakemein?”
Hecaughtmyelbowinhiseagernessanddrewmetowardsthehouse.“Youcanlieassnughereasifyouwereinamoss-hole.I’llseethatnobodyblabs,either.Andyou’llgivemesomemorematerialaboutyouradventures?”
AsIenteredtheinnporchIheardfromfaroffthebeatofanengine.TheresilhouettedagainsttheduskyWestwasmyfriend,themonoplane.
Hegavemearoomatthebackofthehouse,withafineoutlookovertheplateau,andhemademefreeofhisownstudy,whichwasstackedwithcheapeditionsofhisfavouriteauthors.Ineversawthegrandmother,soIguessedshewasbedridden.AnoldwomancalledMargitbroughtmemymeals,andtheinnkeeperwasaroundmeatallhours.
