Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

in Mrs Laker’s or the street, Thornhill pouring out a torrent of small-talk, and Mr Franklin nodding gravely and occasionally observing “Just so”. And gradually Castle Lancing’s interest dwindled, as such interests do; Mr Franklin remained an object of remark, slightly mysterious – but a mystery has to manifest itself mysteriously if it is to claim much attention, and Mr Franklin remained undeniably normal; a minor sensation in September, he was old news by October – and that suited him very well, apparently. He was content, it seemed, to merge into the background of Castle Lancing, far from the great world, and to forget about it, at least for a season. But, although he did not suspect it as he went about placidly improving and perfecting his house, watching the apples wrinkle and wither in his orchard, and the leaves fall to carpet his garden in brown and gold – although he was far from suspecting it in his sought-out rustic solitude, the great world was not prepared to forget him.

      It was a raw October day that Mr Franklin unstabled the hack hired from a farrier in Thetford, hitched it expertly to his small trap, and set out on the fifteen-mile journey to the village of West Walsham. He had seen an advertisement in the local paper offering for sale seventy-five feet of Japanese oak panelling, and since his own hall had struck him as being in need of lightening, he had decided to drive over to the country house where the panelling was on view. It was, he admitted to himself, a fairly thin excuse for the journey; he had no real notion of what Japanese oak looked like, but he had not been abroad for a fortnight, and the prospect of a ramble along the back-roads of Norfolk was attractive. Thornhill had recommended a drive by Wayland Woods – the very wood, he assured an amused Mr Franklin, where the Babes of the famous legend had been abandoned by their wicked uncle, whose house at Griston was still to be seen. So the trap carried a large and well-filled picnic hamper, and Mr Franklin bowled off not caring a great deal whether he reached his destination or not.

      He ambled very much at random, roughly in what he believed was the West Walsham direction, guiding himself by the orange ball of the sun which shone dimly through the autumn mist, content to admire the golden woods and the pale green meadows on his way. There was an invigorating nip in the air, a damp cosiness about the countryside with its heavy brown earth and dripping hedges, which he found strangely pleasant; in the far distance he caught once or twice the sound of many dogs barking, and wondered what so large a pack could be doing. It was all very peaceful and English, he told himself, and he was enjoying it – was he turning into a Limey, he wondered, smiling at the thought. Even after a few weeks he was aware that his appearance had probably changed a little; the trim tweeds he was wearing, the shooting-hat and gaiters, were all right in the Norfolk character; he laughed aloud and said “Squire!”, shaking his head – how the roughnecks at Tonopah or the barkeeps at the Bella Union would have laughed at that. He didn’t care; it suited him.

      He came out of his pleasant daydream to the realization that he had no idea where he was, and that it must be getting close to noon. He chucked the reins, the hack roused itself to a gentle trot, and they came over a rise and down a gentle slop to a bridge among the thickets where, on a clear space by the roadside, a large Mercedes motor-car was parked. It was an imposing machine, with five passengers that he could see: a lady and gentleman seated on camp-chairs by the roadside, having lunch, with another woman in the car, what looked like a servant attending to the tiny camp-table before the diners, and an undoubted chauffeur busying himself at the back of the car. It occurred to Mr Franklin that where there was a chauffeur there would certainly be a map; he slowed to a halt beside the car and raised his hat.

      “Good day,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell me if I’m on the right road for West Walsham?”

      The gentleman appeared not to have heard him; at least, he did not take his attention from the heaped plate on his lap. He was a stout, elderly man, clad in a heavy caped coat and plaid trousers, with a cap pulled down over his brows, and he appeared to be enjoying his lunch immensely. Mr Franklin glanced at the lady, and immediately forgot all about the male half of the dining party; she had looked up in surprise at his question, and he found himself looking into a face that was quite breath-takingly beautiful. Bright green eyes and auburn hair were a startling enough combination, with that perfect complexion, but there was a liveliness about her expression, and in the sudden brilliant smile which she bestowed on him, that prompted Mr Franklin to bow in his seat as he repeated his question.

      “West Walsham?”

      The lady glanced at her companion, who carefully wiped his grizzled beard on a napkin before shaking his head.

      “Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. Don’t know where we are, for that matter.” And he gave a deep, hearty chuckle.

      “Perhaps Stamper knows,” said the lady, and turned to repeat the question to the chauffeur, who consulted a map. He seemed to be having some difficulty, and the lady presently rose to help him; the long heavy motoring-coat could not conceal the grace of her movements, and Mr Franklin was charmed as he watched the lovely face intent on the map which the chauffeur spread on the motor’s bonnet, and the tiny gloved hand tracing on it. The stout old gentleman, having reluctantly surrendered his empty plate to the servant, was now contemplating an unlit cigar; no one else was saying a word, and Mr Franklin politely removed his attention from the beautiful map-reader and remarked that it was a fine day for a picnic.

      The old gentleman seemed surprised at this. The grizzled beard and heavy moustache were turned on Mr Franklin; small bright eyes regarded him for several seconds, taking in his clothing, his horse and trap, his person, and (Mr Franklin felt) his standing and moral character. The old gentleman spoke.

      “Yes,” he said, and placed the cigar in his mouth. The servant lighted it, and the old gentleman puffed irritably for a few seconds, and then turned to address the lady and chauffeur. “Can’t you find it?”

      The lady laughed, intent on the map. “That can’t be it, Stamper – that’s miles away.” She raised her head. “Stamper’s found a North Walsham, but it’s at the other end of the county.”

      The old gentleman considered, puffing thoughtfully. “Then look at this end,” he said. “Towards the west. That’s where it’ll be – wouldn’t you say?” he added to Mr Franklin.

      “Please,” said Mr Franklin, “I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble, and –”

      “It’s no trouble,” said the lady, “we shall find it in a moment. Come along, Stamper – you take that side and I’ll take this …”

      The old gentleman sighed, and Mr Franklin sat through an uncomfortable minute, wishing he had passed by without inquiry, while the lady and chauffeur were joined by the second lady from the car; they continued the search, murmuring over the map, but West Walsham proved as elusive as ever, and Mr Franklin was on the point of asking them to desist when the old gentleman said suddenly:

      “Had lunch?”

      “I beg your pardon – no, no thank you,” said Mr Franklin hurriedly. “Thank you very much, but I’m … ah, lunching farther on.”

      The old gentleman grunted, smoked busily, and then said:

      “Have a glass of wine, anyway, while you’re waiting.” And before he could protest, Mr Franklin found himself being presented with a glass by the ever-ready servant. He raised it to the old gentleman, searching for the right words.

      “Why thank you, sir. Your very good health, and –” he bowed towards the group round the map “ – and your daughter’s, too.”

      Why he assumed that the beautiful lady was the old gentleman’s daughter he could not have said; they could hardly be man and wife, and the relationship seemed a reasonable supposition. That he was wrong, offensively wrong, was evident immediately; at his words the murmur of voices over the map stopped dead, and the old gentleman stared at him with his face going crimson. Surprise and anger showed in the little bright eyes staring at Mr Franklin; then the eyes closed as their owner began to wheeze loudly – to his relief Mr Franklin realized that the old gentleman was laughing, and laughing with abandon, heaving precariously on his camp-chair, and finally going into a coughing-fit which brought the beautiful lady to his side. She bent over him, an arm about his