“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 the floor, and felt once more in his pocket.

“How far off is the garage?” he asked.

“It’s right across the way,” the innkeeper replied, “a speculation of Neighbour Martin’s, and a foolish one it do seem to me.  He’s two cars there, and one he lets to the Government for delivering the mails.”

Gerald felt in his pocket and produced a sovereign.

“Give this,” he said, “to any man you can find who will go across there and bring me a car—­the most powerful they’ve got, if there’s any difference.  Tell them I’ll pay well.  This—­my friend will be much better at home with me than in a strange place when he comes to his senses.”

“It’s sound common sense,” the woman declared.  “Be off with you, Richard.”

The man was looking at the coin covetously, but his wife pushed him away.

“It’s not a sovereign you’ll be taking from the gentleman for a little errand like that,” she insisted sharply.  “He shall pay us for what he’s had when he goes, and welcome, and if so be that he’s willing to make it a sovereign, to include the milk and the brandy and the confusion we’ve been put to this night, well and good.  It’s a heavy reckoning, maybe, but the night calls for it.  We’ll see about that afterwards.  Get along with you, I say, Richard.”

“I’ll be wet through,” the man muttered.

“And serve you right!” the woman exclaimed.  “If there’s a man in this village to-night whose clothes are dry, it’s a thing for him to be ashamed of.”

The innkeeper reluctantly departed.  They heard the roar of the wind as the door was opened and closed.  The woman poured out another glass of milk and brought it to Gerald.