By way of
assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard. Just as our preparations
are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears. A moment or two later the hostler
follows her out. He has bandaged the horse's leg, and is now ready to
drive us to Farleigh Hall. I observe signs of agitation in his face and
manner, which suggest that my wife has found her way into his confidence.
I put the question to her privately in a corner of the yard. "Well? Have
you found out why Francis Raven was up all night?"
Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of answering plainly,
Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites the audience by putting a
question on her side.
"What is the day of the month, dear?"
"The day of the month is the first of March."
"The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven's birthday."
I try to look as if I was interested--and don't succeed.
"Francis was born," Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, "at two o'clock in the
morning."
I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way of the
landlord's intellect. "Is that all?" I ask.
"It is _not_ all," Mrs. Fairbank answers. "Francis Raven sits up on the
morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to bed."
"And why is he afraid to go to bed?"
"Because he is in peril of his life."
"On his birthday?"
"On his birthday.
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