WHAT TIMMY DID

“Deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the dog.”—­Psalms xxii, 20.

CHAPTER I

The telephone bell rang sharply in the sunlit and charming, if shabby, hall of Old Place.

To John Tosswill there was always something incongruous, and recurringly strange, in this queer link between a little country parish mentioned in Domesday Book and the big bustling modern world.

The bell tinkled on and on insistently, perhaps because it was now no one’s special duty to attend to it.  But at last the mistress of the house came running from the garden and, stripping off her gardening gloves, took up the receiver.

Janet Tosswill was John Tosswill’s second wife, and, though over forty, a still young and alert looking woman, more Irish than Scotch in appearance, with her dark hair and blue eyes.  But she came of good Highland stock and was proud of it.

“London wants you,” came the tired, cross voice she knew all too well.

“I think there must be some mistake.  This is Old Place, Beechfield, Surrey.  I don’t think anyone can be ringing us from London.”

She waited a moment impatiently.  Of course it was a mistake!  Not a soul in London knew their telephone number.  It had never been put on their notepaper.  Still, she went on listening with the receiver held to her ear, and growing more and more annoyed at the futile interruption and waste of time.

She was just going to hang up the receiver when all at once the expression of her face altered.  From being good-humoured, if slightly impatient, it became watchful, and her eyes narrowed as was their way when Janet Tosswill was “upset” about anything.  She had suddenly heard, with startling clearness, the words:—­“Is that Old Place, Beechfield?  If so, Mr. Godfrey Radmore would like to speak to Mrs. Tosswill.”

She was so surprised, so taken aback that for a moment she said nothing.  At last she answered very quietly:—­“Tell Mr. Radmore that Mrs. Tosswill is here waiting on the ’phone.”

There was another longish pause, and then, before anything else happened, Janet Tosswill experienced an odd sensation; it was as if she felt the masterful, to her not over-attractive, presence of Godfrey Radmore approaching the other end of the line.  A moment later, she knew he was there, within earshot, but silent.

“Is that you, Godfrey?  We thought you were in Australia.  Have you been home long?”

The answer came at once, in the deep, resonant, once familiar voice—­the voice no one had heard in Old Place for nine years—­nine years with the war having happened in between.

“Indeed no, Janet!  I’ve only been back a very short time.” (She noticed he did not say how long.) “And I want to know when I may come down and see you all?  I hope you and Mr. Tosswill will believe me when I say it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t come to Beechfield last year.  I hadn’t a spare moment!”