CHAPTER EIGHTRest Cure
When Gamadge rose next morning his natural amiability was in a state of total eclipse. He decided, as he swallowed his coffee, that five hours’ sleep were not enough for a man of thirty-five with something on his mind. He showed no interest when Theodore told him that Clara and Harold had gone out, and that Harold had been carrying Gamadge’s best bag.
“Tell Mrs. Gamadge I’ll be back for dinner.” Gamadge hurried to the garage in a neighbouring street, got out his fine new four-seater, and presented himself at the iron gateway in the wall at something less than half-past nine. Mrs. Gregson was waiting for him, a dressing-case and a suitcase on the step beside her. He stowed her luggage away, and settled her in front.
“Mrs. Stoner gone?” he asked, as they drove off.
