I found him at Barcelona, engaged on some Government job. What the job was I don’t know, but it left him plenty of time—to take two people about in his great big car. They were French, these two, and pretty rich. The girl was young and handsome, with a dangerously short upper lip and masses of fine red hair. When Perowne took them out, she sat in front with him, her husband and the chauffeur sitting behind. . . . The husband stuck it until five days ago. Then they left for Valencia, they said, he and his wife . . . going by road. That night I took the lady’s name in vain. I wired from Pampeluna—I had a big car, too—suggesting Perowne should come. He came. I fancy his vanity was tickled. I may be wrong. But I think he liked the idea of the husband chuckling to think that he’d thrown him off the track, while the wife was giving him the tip that they’d taken another road. A maid at Pampeluna did the rest. At least, she gave him a message, when all the rest of the staff denied the very existence of the lady with the short upper lip and the masses of fine red hair. The message bade Perowne take the north-east road. This leads into the mountains and is but little travelled till April is old. He took the road the next day, and he took it alone. His chauffeur had supped with me the night before—holding a very short spoon. . . . I saw him coming when he was miles away, driving like fury along the elegant road that swept and curled and thrust like some stately serpent up and up into bleak places, where, even beneath the sunshine, spring seemed very distant and the monstrous silence of the depths on either hand turned the trickle of running water into the rush of a sluice. When he was two miles off, I knocked out my pipe. Then I adjusted my goggles and entered my car. I drove slowly to meet him on one of the bends. The corner was blind, but he cut it—I knew he would. He found me full in his path on my proper side. He tried to get through, but I squeezed him and crammed him into the ditch. . . . I let him talk for a minute, while I moved on and turned my wheels into a bank. Then I locked the switch and got out of the car. As I came up he let out at me in French. “How long have you been driving?” I answered in English. “Ten or twelve years,” I said. “Had many accidents?” “None. And you?” He stared. “Let me give you a tip,” he said. “When you’re driving a car, don’t stick too close to your rights. It’s not much good to be able to shout ‘You’re wrong’ when they’re pickin’ what’s left of the wind screen out of your brain.” “That’s a true enough saying,” said I, “and here’s another. If you shout for trouble, don’t squeal when your prayer is heard,” and, with that, I took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe. For a moment he looked like thunder. Then he flung out a laugh.