The Truant Spirit Read Online Free Page A

and—well, I suppose that shouldn’t make any difference, really, but I wanted to get there first.”
    “Penruthan ...” he repeated slowly and she inquired with interest if he knew the place.
    “Yes, ” he said. “This isn’t my first visit to Truan, you know. Penruthan is quite a landmark in these parts.
    He began to slow down, and presently he stopped the car on the side of a moorland road and lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to Sabina, and appeared to have forgotten her.
    Her doubts returned as she sat beside him listening to the wind and the rain. They seemed to be miles from anywhere, and nothing had passed them on the road.
    “Why have you stopped?” she asked, and he replied absently: “Not for the reason you suppose. Tell me, what’s the name of this Frenchman who wants your house?”
    “Rene Bergerac. He has a hotel. I believe it s quite famous.”
    “Rene Bergerac .”
    “Have you heard of him, too?” she asked, no longer surprised that on this unpredictable evening coincidence should make a
    bond between herself and this stranger.
    “Naturally, anyone who has visited France has heard the name of Rene Bergerac—the father at any rate, if not the son.”
    He spoke with the now familiar dryness, and she said, like a child caught out in a gross invention:
    “Now I suppose you believe me less than ever.”
    “On the contrary,” he replied, flinging away his half-smoked cigarette, “it might even begin to make a little sense.”
    “You know M. Bergerac, perhaps?”
    He smiled without humour.
    “In a sense I suppose I do. What gives you the idea that he’s an elderly roue?”
    “Things that Tante and Marthe have said, I suppose,” she answered, and added politely: “I’m sorry if I have hurt your feelings.”
    “Why should you hurt my feelings?” he retorted unsympathetically, and she realised he was angry. “It’s not I you think of in such unflattering terms, though I fancy up till this moment you had reservations about my intentions. And what of the good Marthe? Won’t she take fright at your disappearance and communicate immediately with Madame?”
    “Not tonight, anyway. She is visiting her friend in Hampstead, and when she comes back she will find my note explaining.”
    “And tomorrow?”
    “I had not thought as far as tomorrow,” she faltered, and his smile was a little sardonic.
    “Bad generalship?” he remarked. “For tonight, then, you’d better come home with me.”
    “Home ... with you?”
    In the dim glow from the dashboard he could see her astonished eyes widen to such an extent that her pale, small face seemed to shrink visibly.
    “Now don’t get other ideas,” he said hastily. “It’s not really my home. I’m on a visit to my old governess. She’s the widow of the late vicar of Truan and very respected.”
    “But she won’t be expecting you to bring a stranger so late at
    night.”
    His eyebrows lifted still higher at the corners, accentuating that fleeting satanic likeness he possessed as he said:
    “Ah, but you see, a parson’s wife learns to give shelter to the needy; nothing ever surprises her; also she happens to be quite fond of me.”
    He spoke lightly, but she knew he was still angry, either with her or at the inconvenience to himself. She sat there blinking at him, aware that she had no choice but to agree and that, whatever the outcome of this adventure, she was too tired to argue.
    “Well, if you really think—” she began doubtfully, and he restarted his engine.
    “I think on the whole it was lucky you ran into me and not another type of pub-crawler at this hour of the night,” he observed caustically. “Tomorrow we’ll see about retrieving your missing belongings.”
    He had accepted her story. In the happiness which came with relief, she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards him.
    ‘Thank you,” she said shyly. “Don’t—don’t you want to know my name?”
    “Your name? Oh, yes. What is your