Free Red In The Morning by Dornford Yates

Mansel’s eyes. He was holding an envelope up.
    “You must admit,” he said, “that Brevet writes a very nice hand.”
     
    Captain Jonathan Mansel DSO
    c/o Monsieur et Madame Caillau,
    par Izard.
     
    “Well I’m damned,” said I.
    “What did I say?” said Mansel. He slit the envelope and read the letter aloud.
     
    DEAR CAPTAIN MANSEL,
    It is so nice to know that we are neighbours. And, from what I hear of Madame Caillau, you will be well looked after for the rest of your life. What glorious weather! I have just asked Gedge if he has any message for you. His reply has been typically downright, but hardly, shall we say, in tune with the Infinite.
    Pray remember me to Mr Chandos, and Believe me,
     
    Yours very sincerely,
    MAURICE BREVET.
     
    “No man can deny,” said Mansel, “that Brevet has an excellent wit: but, as before, he must show it: he would have been so much wiser to keep to himself the fact that they knew we were here.”
    “How did they know?” said John.
    “I’ve no idea,” said Mansel. “If de Parol is breaking the law – and I think he is – the presence of strangers may be reported to him. Or Caillau may have run into some servant from Arx. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think they will come here: but I’ll lay any money they try and get us to Arx.”
    I got to my feet.
    “I’m tired of the swine,” I said. “Let’s take the evening air.”
    The valley in which our farm stood was as rich as any I know in the Pyrénées. It lay beyond the foothills and under the mountains themselves, and it seemed all pasture and orchards, with a tiny village or two, to serve its husbandmen. It was by no means flat, and the pretty road which served it was rising and falling and twisting for all its length: had a man walked those six miles, I think they would have seemed three, so varied and so rare were the prospects which would have filled his eye. Below the hanging forests, the writ of Husbandry ran: but Nature had not been ousted: the merry waters sang in their ancient beds; the sweet, rich grass arrayed outlines beyond the reach of art; grove and orchard and paddock were rendering unto their Mother the things that were hers.
    Dusk was in, when we entered this pretty pleasance, and night came down before we turned to come back. There was, I remember, no moon, and the air was still.
    We were not very far from our farm, when I heard the sound of a car.
    We all stood still and listened. Then –
    “Behind us,” I said.
    As a rule in the Pyrénées the meadows are kept by stone walls, but one of the pleasantest virtues our valley had was that the English hedgerow bordered the fields. These hedges were beautifully tended – a very rare thing in France; but now they stood against us, for the car was upon our road and we should be caught by its headlights unless we could take to the fields. And a sudden, much louder drawl declared that the car was close – it is an astonishing thing how wood and spur and hillock can baffle sound.
    “Gate on the left,” said Mansel, and led the way.
    We vaulted the gate with just a few seconds to spare, to see an American car go blandly by. But almost at once we heard it begin to lose speed, and then it slowed right down and stopped at our farm.
    We ran down the road behind it, making no noise.
    As we approached, an offside door was opened, and someone got out.
    “Take the car, William,” said Mansel. “John Bagot with you.”
    The car was a sportsman’s coupé that could have held four. Bent double, I passed its nearside until I was close to its door: then I lifted my head, to see that the window was down. As I was listening for a movement, I heard Mansel speaking French.
    “Have you lost your way?”
    There was a moment’s silence. Then –
    “Who’s that?” said a girl, in English.
    “I’m staying near here,” said Mansel. “If you want to get to—, I can tell you the way.”
    “I don’t want to get to —. Do you happen to be Captain