BERRY.

“What’s muscular rheumatism?” said Jill, gurgling with laughter.

“Your muscles get stiff,” said Jonah, “and you get stuck.  Hurts like anything.  I’ve had it.”

“Now you know,” said I, selecting a sausage.  “Will you be ready by hall-past eleven (winter time) or must we lunch here?”

“I’m ready now,” said Jill.  “But you and Jonah said it was indecent to start earlier.”

“So it is.  We shall get to Pistol comfortably in an hour and a half, and if we start again at half-past two, we shall be in London for tea.”

Jonah rose and limped to the window.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said.  “It’s going to be a devilish cold run.”

* * * * *

Jonah was right.

We sat all three upon the front seat, but even so we were hard put to it to keep warm.  The prospect of a hot lunch at Pistol was pleasant indeed.  Jonah was driving, and the Rolls slid through the country like a great grey bird, sailing and swooping and swerving so gracefully that it was difficult to believe the tale which the speedometer told.  Yet this was true enough, for it was not a quarter to one when we swept round the last corner and into the long straight reach of tarmac, at the top of which lay the village we sought.

Pistol is embedded in a high moor, snug and warm, for all its eminence.  The moor itself is girt with waving woods that stretch and toss for miles, making a deep sloping sash of foliage which Autumn will dye with such grave glory that the late loss of Summer and her pretty ways seems easier to bear.  Orange and purple copper and gold, russet and crimson—­these in a hundred tones tremble and glow in one giant harmony, out of which, at the release of sun, come swelling chords so deep and rich and vivid that the sweet air is quick with stifled music and every passing breeze charged to the full with silent melody.

We had left this girdle of woodland behind us and were within half a mile of the village, when some activity about the gates of a private house attracted our attention.  A little knot of men stood arguing in the roadway, three cars and an old fly were berthed close to the hedge, while a good-looking landau was waiting for a furniture van to emerge from the drive.

The next moment we were near enough to learn from a large poster that “the entire contents of Cranmer Place were to be sold by auction” this day, “including a quantity of valuable antique furniture,” and with one accord Jill and I called upon Jonah to stop.

“What for?” said the latter, as he brought the car to a standstill.  “Don’t say you want to go and watch the rector’s wife bidding against her conscience and the draper for a what-not.”

“Such,” said I, “is our intention.”  I hoisted myself to my feet and, opening the door, descended stiffly into the road.  As I helped Jill to follow me, “You push on to Highlands,” I added, “and order the lunch.  We’ll only stay a minute or two.”