"Yet we thrive on the atmosphere, bad as it is. Look at the time we live, Mr. Plowman. Who ever heard of a Judge dying? Yes. I really must have another sandwich. They're so excellent. And now we want you to come with us in the car and take us to Mr. Lyveden ... _Major_ Lyveden, is he? Right ... D.S.O.? Good fellow. Wonder what he got that for. And then you'll come on to lunch...." By the time they were back in the car, Mr. Plowman was upon the edge of praying for an occasion of saving his lordship's life at the expense of his own.... At the south-west corner of Gramarye the guide gave the signal, and the car was stopped. Then Plowman and Orphan alighted and passed up the wasted track. Except for a wreath of smoke curling from the chimney, the cottage might have been deserted.... "I rather expect," said Plowman, "he'll be having his dinner...." A second later he was tapping upon the door. For a moment there was a dead silence. Then a stealthy movement made itself heard.... The two men listened intently. From the London road the Judge and Blithe were watching them closely. The door remaining fast shut, Mr. Plowman knocked again. Instantly the movement ceased. After perhaps twenty seconds it was renewed, but with a difference. The stealth had become hasty. The two men stared at one another. Then-- "Better go in," said Orphan, with his hand on the latch. This yielded to pressure, and the next moment the door was open. The atmosphere prevailing in the little chamber was uninviting. There was a fire glowing upon the hearth, and the room was unpleasantly hot. From the reek of a pungent tobacco emerged an unsavoury smell of something which was not fuel, burning. Scattered about the red-brick floor were black feathers without number, and here and there amid the plumage appeared the muddy print of feet. Perched upon the logs was a pot bubbling, and by the side of the hearth an old pair of boots emitted wisps of steam. Lyveden himself was nowhere to be seen. Plowman looked round wide-eyed, and Orphan blew disgustedly through his nose. The former raised his voice. "Major Lyveden," he called, smiling, "may I come in?" There was no answer. The two conferred in a whisper. Then Plowman cleared his throat. "Major Lyveden!" he called. "It's Plowman speaking--Plowman, of Girdle. Can you spare me a moment?" Still no reply was vouchsafed. Followed by the other, Orphan advanced into the room and looked behind the door. There was no one there. He stepped to the foot of the flight of stairs and spoke upward. "Is Major Lyveden there?" For a moment it seemed as if he, too, was to go unanswered. Then-- "Nao," said a voice thickly, "'e ain't. 'E's gorn aout, 'e 'as. An' won' be beck till ter-morrer." Orphan looked sharply at Plowman. The latter shook his head, frowning, as if in denial, and lifted his voice. "Who's that?" he snapped. Somebody was heard to swallow. Then--