Bates, and left it at that.
Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It
chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a
quarter past seven, and Peters hailed them.
Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually:
"Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack."
"Delighted," said Grant, of course.
Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and
her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant's
secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company.
When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to
suspect his friend.
"Wally," he managed to whisper, "what game have you been playing?"
"Aren't you satisfied?" murmured Hart. "Sdeath, as they used to say in
the Surrey Theater, you're as bad as Furshaw!"
There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners
than the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him with
a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when
the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the
door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until the
bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him,
so he stepped discreetly inside.
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