It was soon evident that we were approaching the bridge, for the noise of the fall was thunderous and the pleasant smell of wet earth was unmistakable. Indeed, an instant later we saw the bridge not sixty paces away, and at half that distance a car in the midst of the road, with a man bent double beside it, trying to pull off a wheel.
He was so much engaged that we had stopped alongside before he knew we were there, and, when on a sudden he was aware of our presence, he gaped at us and the Rolls as at an apparition.
Now this was not the way of a spy; and, indeed, it was easy to see that the fellow had nothing to do with those we sought. His cloth apart—for he wore a clergyman’s habit—one look at his face was enough. The man was a genial simpleton, in whom there was no guile. And I think Mansel would have gone by, for his hand went out to the brake, if the other’s delight to see us had been less manifest.
“You’re English,” he cried, twittering.
“Yes,” said Mansel. “And we were to meet a man here. By that bridge. But we’re late for our appointment, and I’m afraid he may have gone.”
“No one was there,” said the other, “ten minutes ago. And I’ve been there more than an hour. But he might have come since.”
With that, before we could stop him, he started to run to the bridge. We overtook him halfway, for, fool though he looked, it seemed prudent to be there first: but he only sought to step on to our running-board and, fouling the tool-chest, fell heavily into the road.
And there you have Hannibal Rouse, clerk in holy orders. He was, I think, the embodiment of that imaginary curate who has for years been the target of an unkind age. The man was futile. He was most garrulous, seldom said anything worth saying and laughed at everything he said: he was prodigal of energy, seldom did anything worth doing and bungled everything he did. I have never known anyone whose company was so distracting; and the patience with which Mansel endured it was more than human. Yet out of the fool came wisdom, and, but for this pelting idiot, I do not believe we should ever have traced Adèle.
I helped the man to his feet, and, since, in view of his report, there was nothing to be gained by proceeding, Mansel berthed the Rolls by the bridge and walked with us back to his car.
Rouse may be fairly judged by the fact that he was seeking to change a wheel without first raising his car by means of a jack: and, when, perceiving that the wheel was sound, we asked him why he wished to change it, he insisted that its tire was punctured and seemed dumbfounded to find it as tight as a drum. It presently emerged that another of his tires was flat and that he had confused the two. He was not at all abashed by these errors, but attributed them boldly to his being “no engineer.”
He then told us that he was touring and cared not where he went, but proposed to stay at Villach and prove the country round. This was ill news enough; but when, after staring upon Mansel, he presently addressed him by name and then, in an ecstasy of triumph, went on to remember White Ladies and how he had attended some fête there before the War, I know that I groaned in spirit and wished the man at the devil. But Mansel was perfectly civil, though something cold.
We had changed his wheel, in spite of his assistance, and were upon the point of leaving, when Hanbury arrived. This necessarily delayed our going and gave Rouse time to remember that he had a camera with him with which he must photograph us all. We protested that we could not wait, but, while we were still protesting, the thing was done. I confess that it did not delay us, for he took his picture as we reentered the cars, laughing the while like a maniac and promising to show us a proof.
“The man’s a scourge,” said I, as we sped back the way we had come. “He’ll make Villach untenable.”
Mansel shrugged his shoulders.
“I think we must suffer him,” he said. “He may be of use.”
“ ‘Of use?’ ” said I.
“Of use,” said Mansel.
With that, he drove very fast to where Adèle’s glove had been found, and set us all to seeking some mark of a tire; “for here,” he said, “I am certain that she changed from one car to another and, while she did so, contrived to drop her glove, for they would have watched her too closely to let her throw it out as she went.”
In proof of this, he showed us where oil had been dripping on the edge of the grass by the road, as is sometimes the way of a car which is standing still.
“The relay was waiting,” said he, “half on and half off the grass, close up to the hedge. The other ran up alongside, and the transfer was made. And now we’ll all work in a line, searching the ground as they do on a dairy farm.”
We did so for more than an hour, but found nothing.
Then we took to the cars and drove very slowly west, now travelling together, now parting and presently meeting again, until by evening we had come to a great hog’s back, some fifty miles from the spot where the glove had lain. There we rested and watched the sun go down, and then Mansel led us to Villach as fast as he could.
There, more to my disgust than surprise, we found that Rouse was to
