Page 137 - the-thirty-nine-steps

into the landscape. I was on the right track, and I jammed
that down in my mind and vowed never to forget it. The last
word was with Peter Pienaar.
Scaife’s men would be posted now, but there was no sign
of a soul. The house stood as open as a market-place for any-
body to observe. A three-foot railing separated it from the
cliff road; the windows on the ground-floor were all open,
and shaded lights and the low sound of voices revealed
where the occupants were finishing dinner. Everything was
as public and above-board as a charity bazaar. Feeling the
greatest fool on earth, I opened the gate and rang the bell.
A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in
rough places, gets on perfectly well with two classes, what
you may call the upper and the lower. He understands them
and they understand him. I was at home with herds and
tramps and roadmen, and I was sufficiently at my ease with
people like Sir Walter and the men I had met the night be-
fore. I can’t explain why, but it is a fact. But what fellows
like me don’t understand is the great comfortable, satisfied
middle-class world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs.
He doesn’t know how they look at things, he doesn’t un-
derstand their conventions, and he is as shy of them as of a
black mamba. When a trim parlour-maid opened the door,
I could hardly find my voice.
I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan
had been to walk straight into the dining-room, and by a
sudden appearance wake in the men that start of recog-
nition which would confirm my theory. But when I found
myself in that neat hall the place mastered me. There were

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