"Wait here for me," he directed.  "If you see another car coming up,
blow your horn."

He walked across the smooth, ancient turf, stepped over the wire fence
and raised the latch of Richard Vont's cottage gate.  His uncle, a
little disturbed, came hastily down the garden path.  His clothes were
stained with clay, and the perspiration was on his forehead.  David
looked at him in surprise.

"Working so early?"

Vont nodded.

"You forget," he said, "that this is not early for me.  All my life I
have risen with the sun and gone to bed with it.  Come inside, David.
I'll get this muck off my hands.  You spoke of the afternoon."

"I came direct from the village," David replied, as he followed his
uncle into the house.  "I came because I thought you would like to know
that there is another visitor on the way to see you."

Richard Vont looked round and faced his nephew.  His shirt was open at
the throat, his trousers were tied up with little pieces of string.  In
whatever labour he had been engaged, it had obviously been of a
strenuous character.  He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"What's that, David?" he demanded.  "A visitor?"

"Marcia is at the Mandeleys Arms," David told him.  "I am taking it for
granted that she is on her way to see you."

Vont turned deliberately away, and David heard his heavy feet ascending
the staircase.  In a few moments he called downstairs.  His voice was
as usual.

"Step round this afternoon, lad, if you think it's well."

David passed out of the little garden, crossed the strip of park, and,
taking the wheel, drove slowly round by the longer route to Broomleys.

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