CHAPTER XI
P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE
About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in Superintendent
Fowler's dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a
long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris's
company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share
the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a
word during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and
himself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed
nor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor
of morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow
process of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remain
long together.
When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South
American sombrero.
"I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins will
christen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that I
would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade."
"I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting a
walking-stick.
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