When they stopped for afternoon tea, Hamilton did remark that he
thought Bones had said something about Brighton, but Bones just smiled.
They left Andover that night in the dusk; but long before the light had
faded, the light which was sponsored by Mr. Jelf blazed whitely in the
lamp that never went out. And when the dark came Bones purred with
joy, for this light was a wonderful light. It flooded the road ahead
with golden radiance, and illuminated the countryside, so that distant
observers speculated upon its origin.
"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's 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.