The Pit-Prop Syndicate | Page 8

two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl
evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship,
and Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But
in spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from
his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined to
ask a discreet question or two about it.
"I say," he said, during a pause in their talk, "I'm afraid I upset your
lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?"
The girl's manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed
suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she
answered readily enough.
"Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly
shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Merriman apologized, wondering if the man could be a
relative. "Both my brothers suffered from it. They were pretty bad, but
they're coming all right. It's generally a question of time, I think."
"I hope so," Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed
the subject.
They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry
when, having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he
could no longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her
company. He bade her a regretful farewell, and some hall-hour later

was mounting the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.
That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of
the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn's statement about the
shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the
driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over
the affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about
the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had
guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to
him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might
become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all
Miss Coburn's actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also
shared that secret and that fear.
And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious in
the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that he was
not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a trivial matter
and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as well as its
consequences, must be trivial. It was intriguing, but no one could
imagine it to be important. As Merriman cycled eastward through
France his interest in the affair gradually waned, and when, a fortnight
later, he reached England, he had ceased to give it a serious thought
But the image of Miss Coburn did not so quickly vanish from his
imagination, and many times he regretted he had not taken an
opportunity of returning to the mill to renew the acquaintanceship so
unexpectedly begun.
CHAPTER 2
AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION
About ten o'clock on a fine evening towards the end of June, some six
weeks after the incident described in the last chapter, Merriman formed
one of a group of young men seated round the open window of the
smoking room in the Rovers' Club in Cranbourne Street. They had
dined together, and were enjoying a slack hour and a little desultory
conversation before moving on, some to catch trains to the suburbs,

some to their chambers in town, and others to round off the evening
with some livelier form of amusement. The Rovers had premises on the
fourth floor of a large building near the Hippodrome. Its membership
consisted principally of business and professional men, but there was
also a sprinkling of members of Parliament, political secretaries, and
minor government officials, who, though its position was not ideal,
were attracted to it because of the moderation of its subscription and
the excellence of its cuisine.
The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed to
float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the smoke of
their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling above. The gentle
hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment to their conversation,
as the holding down of a soft pedal fills in and supports dreamy organ
music. But for the six young men in the bow window the room was
untenanted, save for a waiter who had just brought some fresh drinks,
and who was now clearing away empty glasses from an adjoining table.
The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had
related experiences which he