Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [64]
“Well, old thing,” said Bones over his shoulder, “what do you think of the lamps?”
“Simply wonderful, Bones,” agreed Hamilton. “I’ve never seen anything so miraculous. I can even see that you’re driving with one hand.”
Bones brought the other hand up quickly to the wheel and coughed. As for Miss Marguerite Whitland, she laughed softly, but nobody heard her.
They were rushing along a country road tree-shaded and high-hedged, and Bones was singing a little song – when the light went out.
It went out with such extraordinary unexpectedness, without so much as a warning flicker, that he was temporarily blinded, and brought the car to a standstill.
“What’s up Bones?” asked Hamilton.
“The light, dear old thing,” said Bones. “I think the jolly old typewriter must have touched the key with her knee.”
“Indeed?” said Hamilton politely; and Bones remembering that the key was well over on his side of the car, coughed, this time fiercely.
He switched the key from left to right, but nothing happened.
“Most extraordinary!” said Bones.
“Most,” said Hamilton.
There was a pause.
“I think the road branches off a little way up. I’ll get down and see which is the right road to take,” said Bones with sudden cheerfulness. “I remember seeing the old signpost before the – er – lamp went out. Perhaps, Miss Marguerite, you’d like to go for a little walk.”
Miss Marguerite Whitland said she thought she would, and they went off together to investigate, leaving Hamilton to speculate upon the likelihood of their getting home that night.
Bones walked ahead with Marguerite, and instinctively their hands sought and found one another. They discovered the cross-roads, but Bones did not trouble to light his match. His heart was beating with extraordinary violence, his lips were dry, he found much difficulty in speaking at all.
“Miss Marguerite,” he said huskily, “don’t think I’m an awful outsider and a perfect rotter, dear old typewriter.”
“Of course I don’t,” she said a little faintly for Bones’ arm was about her.
“Don’t think,” said Bones, his voice trembling, “that I am a naughty old philanderer; but somehow, dear old miss, being alone with you, and all that sort of stuff–”
And he bent and kissed her, and at that moment the light that never went out came on again with extraordinary fierceness, as though to make up for its temporary absence without leave.
And these two young people were focused as in a limelight, and were not only visible from the car, but visible for miles around.
“Dear me!” said Bones.
The girl said nothing. She shaded her eyes from the light as she walked back. As for Bones, he climbed into the driver’s seat with the deliberation of an old gentleman selecting a penny chair in the park, and said, without turning his head: “It’s the road to the left.”
“I’m glad,” said Hamilton, and made no comment even when Bones took the road to the right.
They had gone a quarter of a mile along this highway when the lamp went out. It went out with as unexpected and startling suddenness as before. Bones jingled the key, then turned.
“You wouldn’t like to get out, dear old Ham, and have a look round, would you?”
“No, Bones,” said Hamilton drily. “We’re quite comfortable.”
“You wouldn’t like to get down, my jolly old typewriter?”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marguerite Whitland with decision.
“Oh!” said Bones. “Then, under the circumstances, dear old person, we’d all better sit here until–”
At that moment the light came on. It flooded the white road, and the white road was an excellent wind-screen against which the bending head of Bones was thrown into sharp relief.
The car moved on. At regular intervals the light that never went out forsook its home-loving habits and took a constitutional. The