Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times. As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many times. . . . A moment later they were heading west. “Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.” “That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age. And Nature’s catching the disease.” Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay farther, by twenty paces. The girl stared. “Why have you stopped, Dick?” The other smiled. “Would you like a drink, Dot?” Elizabeth caught his arm. “Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.” “The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial pint of beer——” “Dick, you darling!” “—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.” In silence the bottle passed. . . . “Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly. She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again. Elizabeth put it aside. “You drink that, Dick.” “I brought it for you.” “I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.” Pembury raised the glass. “Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly. He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot upon the clutch. . . . An instant later they were before the broad steps. At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head. “You see I’m crying, Dick.” “Yes.” “You’ve never seen that before.” “Nerves, dear, nerves.” My lady shook her head. “And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily. Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand. “Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers. These were very cold. Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . . Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare. As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across his path. . . . Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory. Two buses were coming. He could see them. By a violent effort he straightened the great car up. Then she skidded again—the opposite way. He accelerated—tried to get through. . . . Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman screamed. . . . With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side. As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and wings.