“I should like to sit down somewhere,” she said faintly. “Perhaps there’s a house somewhere near where they’d give me some tea or something, and let me sit down. I’m not a bit hurt. What about the chauffeur?” The chauffeur, who should have been killed, was safe and sound and more than occupied. It is good to think that he was kneeling upon the stomach of the driver of the motor-lorry, at once reciting the latter’s lineage and failings and compressing his windpipe until the delinquent’s eyeballs started from his head. Twenty-five yards away an imposing gateway argued the presence of a mansion, so two very civil strangers offered Mrs. Cheviot their arms and assisted her up the drive. Then a bell was rung, and when a servant arrived shelter was asked. The man went running for his master, and two minutes later Blanche was seated in a deep chair before a fire, sipping a brandy-and-soda and absently listening to her host’s explosive indignation while her two assistants were relating the manner of her mishap. The spirit worked wonders. By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed on her way. “If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage, you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was more or less hurt.” “You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to put you up and your husband too.” “You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——” “Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will bring you some tea.” He strode to a door and passed out. It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a cigarette that she noticed the room. This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions.