but come in and pray!"

Her husband scoffed. He was dressed only in his shirt and trousers,
his hair rough, his braces hanging down behind.

"Come in and pray!" he repeated. "Not he! Not Mr. Wembley! He's
safe tucked up in his bed, shivering with fear, I'll bet you. He's
not getting his feet wet to save a body or lend a hand here. Souls
are his job. You let the preacher alone, mother, and tell us what
we're going to do with this gentleman."

"The Lord only knows!" she cried, wringing her hands.

"Can I hire a motor-car from anywhere near?" Gerald asked.

"There's motor-cars, right enough," the innkeeper replied, "but not
many as would be fools enough to take one out. You couldn't see
the road, and I doubt if one of them plaguey things would stir in
this storm."

"Such nonsense as you talk, Richard Budden!" his wife exclaimed
sharply. "It's twenty minutes past three of the clock, and there's
light coming on us fast. If so be as the young gentleman knows
folks round about here, or happens to live nigh, why shouldn't he
take one of them motor-cars and get away to some decent place?
It'll be better for the poor gentleman than lying here in a house
smitten by the Lord."

Gerald rose stiffly to his feet. An idea was forming in his brain.
His eyes were bright. He looked at the body of John Dunster upon