She settled back in her place and he touched the accelerator with his foot. Through Stevenage and Baldock, across the great open spaces to Royston, at sixty miles an hour to Newmarket, up the hill, along the Norwich road, then round to the left to Brandon, across the miles of heath with the stunted pine trees and miles of heather, into the more luxurious pastoral country of eastern Norfolk. It was half-past five when they crossed Fakenham Common and crept through the narrow streets of the old-fashioned town. He turned to look at her. She was still sleeping. She woke, however, as the car slackened speed. 'Where are we?' she asked. 'Fakenham,' he told her, 'with half-an-hour to spare. It's just half-past five.' 'You wonderful person,' she sighed, shaking herself free from the rugs. They drew up in the archway of the hotel and made their way up the outside stairs into the old-fashioned coffee-room. She drank tea and toyed with her bread and butter absently. She looked continually out of the window, seawards. 'It is a wonderful day,' she said thoughtfully. 'There is no wind at all. They might come even before the time.' He made her light a cigarette, followed her example, and in a few minutes they were again in the car. Half-an-hour later they looked down upon the quaint, old-world village of Blakeney, set amidst the marshlands, and beyond, the open sea. Suzanne was all alertness now and sat up by his side, gazing eagerly towards the line of white breakers. Suddenly, with a warning hoot, a long, grey car which had come up noiselessly behind them, swept past at a great speed. Suzanne gave a little exclamation. 'It is the car, I am sure!' she declared. 'It has come to meet him! All that I was told is true.' 'It's some car, all right,' Lavendale remarked, 'but I wouldn't have taken his dust as quietly as this if I'd heard him coming.' She laughed at him. 'That car,' she said, 'is bound on the same errand that we are. It is on its way to Blakeney to meet the same passenger.' 'Well, we're in time, anyway,' was his only comment. They slackened speed as they turned into the long, narrow street. About half-way down, the car in front of them was stopped by a soldier with drawn bayonet. A non-commissioned officer by the side was talking to the driver. Close at hand, a man in civilian clothes was lounging in front of what seemed to be the guardroom. Suzanne clutched her companion's arm in excitement. 'Ambrose!' she exclaimed. 'That's Major Elwell--the man in mufti, I mean! He is one of the chiefs of the English Secret Service.' 'I shall have to know a little more about this before I can catch on,' Lavendale confessed.