But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially entered a bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his memory, that he had noticed that queer shaped splinter as the lorry passed him on the bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a shadow of doubt the same machine.
Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate, wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at fault. He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape of the 4, which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was no shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few seconds, puzzling over the problem and was just about to remark on it when the girl broke in hurriedly.
‘Father will be in the office,’ she said, and her voice was sharpened as from anxiety. ‘Won’t you come and see him about the petrol?’
He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed the direction of hers.
The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline featured man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at Merriman with an intense regard in which doubt and suspicion rapidly changed to hostility. For the moment neither man moved, and then once again the girl’s voice broke in.
‘Oh, there is father,’ she cried, with barely disguised relief in her tones. ‘Come, won’t you, and speak to him.’
The interruption broke the spell. The driver averted his eyes and stooped over his engine; Merriman turned towards the girl, and the little incident was over.
It was evident to Merriman that he had in some way put his foot in it, how he could not imagine, unless there was really something in the matter of the number plate. But it was equally clear to him that his companion wished to ignore the affair, and he therefore expelled it from his mind for the moment, and, once again following the direction of her gaze, moved towards a man who was approaching from the far end of the shed.
He was tall and slender like his daughter, and walked with lithe, slightly feline movements. His face was oval, clear skinned, and with a pallid complexion made still paler by his dark hair and eyes and a tiny moustache, almost black and with waxed and pointed ends. He was good-looking as to features, but the face was weak and the expression a trifle shifty.
His daughter greeted him, still with some perturbation in her manner.
‘We were just looking for you, daddy,’ she called a little breathlessly. ‘This gentleman is cycling to Bordeaux and has run out of petrol. He asked me if there was any to be had hereabouts, so I told him you could give him some.’
The newcomer honoured Merriman with a rapid though searching and suspicious glance, but he replied politely, and in a cultured voice:
‘Quite right, my dear.’ He turned to Merriman and spoke in French. ‘I shall be very pleased to supply you, monsieur. How much do you want?’
‘Thanks awfully, sir,’ Merriman answered in his own language. ‘I’m English. It’s very good of you, I’m sure, and I’m sorry to be giving so much trouble. A litre should run me to Bordeaux, or say a little more in case of accidents.’
‘I’ll give you two litres. It’s no trouble at all.’ He turned and spoke in rapid French to the driver.
‘Oui, monsieur,’ the man replied, and then, stepping up to his chief, he said something in a low voice. The other started slightly, for a moment looked concerned, then instantly recovering himself, advanced to Merriman.
‘Henri, here, will send a man with a two litre can to where you left your machine,’ he said, then continued with a suave smile:
‘And so, sir, you’re English? It is not often that we have the pleasure of meeting a fellow-countryman in these wilds.’
‘I suppose not, sir, but I can assure you your pleasure and surprise is as nothing to mine. You are not only a fellow-countryman but a friend in need as well.’
‘My dear sir, I know what it is to run out of spirit. And I suppose there is no place in the whole of France where you might go farther without finding any than this very district. You are on pleasure bent, I presume?’
Merriman shook his head.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ he replied. ‘I’m travelling for my firm, Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants of London. I’m Merriman, Seymour Merriman, and I’m going round the exporters with whom we deal.’
‘A pleasant way to do it, Mr Merriman. My name is Coburn, You see, I am trying to change the face of the country here?’
‘Yes, Miss’—Merriman hesitated for a moment and looked at the girl—‘Miss Coburn told me what you were doing. A splendid notion, I think.’
‘Yes, I think we’re going to make it pay very well. I suppose you’re not making a long stay?’
‘Two days in Bordeaux, sir, then I’m off east to Avignon.’
‘Do you know, I rather envy you. One gets tired of these tree trunks and the noise of the saws. Ah, there is your petrol.’ A workman had appeared with a red can of Shell. ‘Well, Mr Merriman, a pleasant journey to you. You will excuse my not going farther with you, but I am really supposed to be busy.’ He turned to his daughter with a smile. ‘You, Madeleine, can see Mr Merriman to the road?’
He shook hands, declined Merriman’s request to be allowed to pay for the petrol and, cutting short the other’s thanks with a wave of his arm, turned back to the shed.
The two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship, and Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But in spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined to ask a discreet question or two about it.
‘I say,’ he said, during a pause in their talk, ‘I’m afraid I upset your lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?’
The girl’s manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she answered readily enough.
‘Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Merriman apologised, wondering if the man could be a relative. ‘Both my brothers were hit the same way. They were pretty bad, but they’re coming all right. It’s generally a question of time, I think.’
‘I hope so,’ Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed the subject.
They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry when, having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he could no longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her company. He bade her a regretful farewell, and some half-hour later was mounting the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.
That evening, and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn’s statement about the shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over the affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all Miss Coburn’s actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also shared that secret and that fear.
And