He turned away with a pretence of dignity, the craven brag of a schoolboy who says, “I could lick you if I wanted to, but I don’t happen to want to.”  I watched him as he walked back towards the avenue with a deliberation that was so artificial, I could swear that when he reached the turn he would break into a run.

I stood still in the same place long after he was out of sight.  As my short-lived passion evaporated, I began to realise that I was really in a very awkward situation.  I could not and would not return to the Hall.  I had offended Frank Jervaise beyond all hope of reconciliation.  He would never forgive me for that exposure of his cowardice.  And if I had not had a single friend at the house before, I could, after the new report of my treachery had been spread by Frank, expect nothing but the bitterness of open enemies.  No doubt they would essay a kind of frigid politeness, their social standards would enforce some show of outward courtesy to a guest.  But I simply could not face the atmosphere of the Hall again.  And here I was without my luggage, without even a hat, and with no idea where I could find refuge.  The only idea I had was that of walking fifteen miles to Hurley Junction on the chance of getting a train back to town.

It was an uncommonly queer situation for a perfectly innocent man, week-ending at a country house.  I should have been ashamed to face the critics if I had made so improbable a situation the crux of a play.  But the improbability of life constantly outruns the mechanical inventions of the playwright and the novelist.  Where life, with all its extravagances, fails, is in its refusal to provide the apt and timely coincidence that shall solve the problem of the hero.  As I walked on slowly towards Jervaise Clump, I had little hope of finding the peculiarly appropriate vehicle that would convey me to Hurley Junction; and I did not relish the thought of that fifteen mile walk, without a hat.

I kept to the road, skirting the pudding basin hill, and came presently to the fence of the Park and to what was evidently a side gate—­not an imposing wrought-iron erection between stone pillars such as that which announced the front entrance, but just a rather high-class six-barred gate.

I hesitated a minute or two, with the feelings of one who leaves the safety of the home enclosure for the unknown perils of the wild, and then with a sigh of resignation walked boldly out on to the high road.

I had no notion in which direction Hurley Junction lay, but luck was with me, so far.  There was a fourth road, opposite the Park gate, and a sign-post stood at the junction of what may once have been the main cross-roads—­before some old Jervaise land-robber pushed the park out on this side until he was stopped by the King’s highway.

On the sign-post I read the indication that Hurley Junction was distant 14-1/2 miles, and that my direction was towards the north; but I felt a marked disinclination to begin my walk.