Nineteen A COUNCIL OF THREE
Moira returned a few minutes later.
“I got her,” she said. “I’ve asked her to come and meet me at a little sum-merhouse down near the river. She must have thought it very odd, but shesaid she’d come.”
“Good,” said Bobby. “Now, just where is this place exactly?”
Moira described it carefully, and the way to get to it.
“That’s all right,” said Bobby. “You go first. I’ll follow on.”
They adhered to this programme, Bobby lingering to have a word withMr. Askew¹.
“Odd thing,” he said casually², “that lady, Mrs. Nicholson, I used to workfor an uncle of hers. Canadian gentleman.”
Moira’s visit to him might, he felt, give rise to gossip, and the last thinghe wanted was for gossip of that kind to get about and possibly find itsway to Dr. Nicholson’s ears.
“So that’s it, is it?” said Mr. Askew. “I rather wondered.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “She recognized me, and came along to hear what Iwas doing now. A nice, pleasant-spoken lady.”
“Very pleasant, indeed. She can’t have much of a life living at theGrange.”
“It wouldn’t be my fancy,” agreed Bobby.
Feeling that he had achieved his object, he strolled out into the villageand with an aimless air betook himself in the direction indicated byMoira.
He reached the rendezvous⁴ successfully and found her there waiting forhim. Frankie had not yet put in an appearance.
Moira’s glance was frankly⁵ inquiring, and Bobby felt he must attemptthe somewhat difficult task of explanation.
“There’s an awful lot I’ve got to tell you,” he said, and stopped awk-wardly.
“Yes?”
“To begin with,” said Bobby plunging⁶, “I’m not really a chauffeur⁷, al-though I do work in a garage in London. And my name isn’t Hawkins—it’sJones—Bobby Jones. I come from Marchbolt in Wales.”

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