"Before I come with you," he said, in his brief, clipped style, "there
is one thing I want to know. Are you patronising me for the sake of
philanthropy, or for--some other reason?"
As he uttered the question, he fixed Babbacombe with a stare that was
not without insolence.
Babbacombe did not hesitate in his reply. He was not a man to be lightly
disconcerted.
"You can put it down to anything you like," he said, "except
philanthropy."
West considered a moment.
"Very well, sir," he said finally, his aggressive tone slightly
modified. "In that case I will come with you."
He turned about, and thrust his arms into the coat Babbacombe held for
him, turned up the collar, and without a backward glance, stepped into
the waiting motor.
Babbacombe started the engine, and followed him. In another moment they
had glided away into the dripping mist, and the prison was left behind.
Through mile after mile they sped in silence. West sat with his chin
buried in his coat, his keen eyes staring straight ahead. Babbacombe, at
the wheel, never glanced at him once.
Through villages, through towns, through long stretches of open country
they glided, sometimes slackening, but never stopping. The sun broke
through at length, revealing a country of hills and woods and silvery
running streams. They had been travelling for hours. It was nearly noon.
For the first time since their start Babbacombe spoke.
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