In
the house itself there was a coming and going of scuttering
footsteps, a rushing and dying away of hurried voices, and
long, uneasy stillnesses. Crefton finished his dressing and
made his way to the head of a narrow staircase. He could
hear a dull, complaining voice, a voice into which an awed
hush had crept, and recognized the speaker as Mrs.
Spurfield.
``He'll go away, for sure,'' the voice was saying; ``there
are those as runs away from one as soon as real misfortune
shows itself.''
Crefton felt that he probably was one of ``those,'' and
that there were moments when it was advisable to be true to
type.
He crept back to his room, collected and, packed his few
belongings, placed the money due for his lodgings on a
table, and made his way out by a back door into the yard. A
mob of poultry surged expectantly towards him; shaking off
their interested attentions he hurried along under cover of
cowstall, piggery, and hayricks till he reached the lane at
the back of the farm. A few minutes' walk, which only the
burden of his portmanteaux restrained from developing into
an undisguised run, brought him to a main road, where the
early carrier soon overtook him and sped him onward to the
neighbouring town.
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