Very stiff and dazed, he
staggered to his feet. There was the village to his right,
red-tiled, familiar; the snug farmhouses, with their brown fields
and belts of trees; the curve of the white road.
And then, with a single flash of memory, it all came back to him.
He felt the top of his head, still sore; looked down at the
stretch of shingle, empty now of any reminiscences; and finally,
leaning heavily on his stick, he plodded back to the cottage,
noticing, as he drew near, the absence of the motor-car from its
place of shelter. Miles Furley was seated in his armchair, with a
cup of tea in his hand and Mrs. West fussing over him, as Julian
raised the latch and dragged himself into the sitting room. They
both turned around at his entrance. Furley dropped his teaspoon
and Mrs. West raised her hands above her head and shrieked.
Julian sank into the nearest chair.
"Melodrama has come to me at last," he murmured. "Give me some
tea--a whole teapotful, Mrs. West--and get a hot bath ready."
He waited until their temporary housekeeper had bustled out of the
room. Then he concluded his sentence.
"I have been sandbagged," he announced impressively, and proceeded
to relate the night's adventure to his host.
"This," declared Julian, about a couple of hours later, as he
helped himself for the second time to bacon and eggs, "is a
wonderful tribute to the soundness of our constitutions. Miles,
it is evident that you and I have led righteous lives.
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