The Dusky Hour by E.R. Punshon Page B

have given him a warning against the other gentleman dining there – Pegley, I think his name was. It did strike me that the description Hayes gave of the man he said called on him to try to push off some rotten shares was a bit like Mr. Pegley.”
    â€œI noticed that,” agreed the colonel. “Seems more promising trail to follow. I happen to know – he grumbles about having so much tied up on such low interest – that Moffatt has a very large sum in old consols. He hinted once that it was in six figures.”
    â€œSort of thing the share-pusher goes for,” Bobby re-marked. “‘What’s the good of leaving all that money at two and a half when with a little enterprise you can get five or ten, double or quadruple your income?’ That’s their line of country. It succeeds, too, very often. Of course, that means Mr. Moffatt is more likely to be a share-pusher’s victim than in the game himself, as Hayes’s story of secret visits to America seemed to hint. I suppose you know, sir, if the six figures in consols is a fact? There’s no chance it’s imaginary?”
    â€œHow should I know?” snapped the colonel irritably. “We were talking about investments one day, and Moffatt happened to say that. That’s all.”

CHAPTER 10
THE POULTRY FARM
    It was early, then, the next morning when Bobby presented himself at the Towers Poultry Farm. At least, he thought it was early, but on the farm it was merely the pause in the daily routine when the necessary morning work was over, the afternoon toil not yet begun, and so there was opportunity for attention to odd jobs always clamouring to be seen to.
    Bobby was not much of an agriculturist, but even to his inexpert eyes sundry signs suggested a certain lack of ready cash; nor was he sufficiently accustomed to poultry farms to know that such signs are their almost necessary and inevitable characteristic. A girl appeared from behind one of the outhouses and, seeing him, came towards him. She was of tall and vigorous build, dressed in rough country attire, with heavy boots and gaiters and with her hair closely cropped. No one could have called her even moderately good-looking, for her features were large and irregular, there was a small birthmark on one cheek, the Eton crop she affected as little suited her as any style of hairdressing she could possibly have chosen. One had the idea, indeed, that she wished to emphasise her lack of any claim to prettiness or charm. None the less, the direct look in her wide, straight-gazing eyes, the whole healthy vigour of her appearance, gave her an attractiveness of her own.
    â€œA real Amazon,” Bobby thought, as she strode towards him, her heavy boots crunching the gravel of the path, in her hands a long-handled hoe and a basket she managed somehow to hold as though they were spear and shield.
    â€œOh, good morning,” he said, lifting his hat as she came striding up. “Miss Towers, I think? I’m so sorry to trouble you.” He produced his card. “I am inquiring into the accident at Battling Copse near here,” he explained.
    â€œOh, yes,” she said, looking at him steadily. “Was it an accident?” she asked. “There’s a lot of talk.”
    â€œYes?” he said. “You have heard something?”
    â€œI’ve heard nothing else,” she answered. She added: “There was a policeman here yesterday. He wanted to know if we had seen any strangers and if we had had anyone for tea. We provide teas. We couldn’t tell him anything.”
    â€œYou had seen no one?”
    â€œOnly neighbours. No strangers.”
    â€œNo one for tea?”
    â€œNo. Mr. Hayes came over from Way Side, but no one else. We don’t often, at this time of year.”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Bobby, thinking to himself that this tall, direct, well-built girl might easily exercise a strong attraction on the little, dried-up