It was as well, for ten minutes later the car returned, one
of the occupants waving a hand to me. Those gentry left nothing
to chance.
I finished Turnbull's bread and cheese, and pretty soon I had
finished the stones. The next step was what puzzled me. I could not
keep up this roadmaking business for long. A merciful Providence
had kept Mr Turnbull indoors, but if he appeared on the scene
there would be trouble. I had a notion that the cordon was still
tight round the glen, and that if I walked in any direction I should
meet with questioners. But get out I must. No man's nerve could
stand more than a day of being spied on.
I stayed at my post till five o'clock. By that time I had resolved
to go down to Turnbull's cottage at nightfall and take my chance
of getting over the hills in the darkness. But suddenly a new car
came up the road, and slowed down a yard or two from me. A
fresh wind had risen, and the occupant wanted to light a cigarette.
It was a touring car, with the tonneau full of an assortment of
baggage. One man sat in it, and by an amazing chance I knew him.
His name was Marmaduke jopley, and he was an offence to creation.
He was a sort of blood stockbroker, who did his business by
toadying eldest sons and rich young peers and foolish old ladies.
'Marmie' was a familiar figure, I understood, at balls and polo-
weeks and country houses.
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