It was only half past seven; he had nearly an hour before Mr. Solway expected him, and he thought he would use that time for investigating the engine of the limousine. Both cars were in deplorably good condition; there was little he could justifiably do to them, and he was, moreover, a mechanic of more enterprise than experience. But he was devoted to engines, and pretty well up in the theory of the internal combustion type. He put on a suit of overalls he found in the garage; he started the engine and opened the hood; he was so pleased with that fine roar, that powerful vibration which was like the beat of a great, faithful heart, that he began to whistle. A superb motor; he would enjoy driving that car. “She’s a beauty, all right!” said a voice, so very close to his ear that he jumped. Standing at his elbow was a burly fellow of thirty-five or so, with a bulldog jaw; his voice and his smile were friendly, but his blue eyes, Ross thought, were not. “Yes, sir!” he went on. “You’ve got a mighty fine car there.” Ross said nothing. He did not care to continue his amateur explorations under those cold blue eyes. He shut off the engine, closed the hood, and turned toward the stranger with a challenging glance. But the stranger was not at all abashed. “Have a smoke,” he asked, proffering a packet of cigarettes. “No, thanks!” said Ross, and stood there, facing the other, and obviously waiting for an explanation. “Dirty weather!” said the stranger. “All right!” said Ross sullenly. “What about it?” His tone was very nearly savage, for, to tell the truth, his position was having a bad effect upon his temper. Having so much to conceal, so many unwelcome secrets intrusted to him, he had begun to suspect every one. He didn’t like this fellow. “Well, I’ll tell you,” said the stranger, in an easy and confidential manner. “I came up this way, looking for a man. And I thought I’d drop in here and see if you could give me any information.” He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross. “Fellow by the name of Ives,” he said. “Ever hear of him, eh?” “No!” said Ross. “Ives,” said the other, slowly. “Martin Ives. Fellow about your age. About your build. Dark complexioned—like you.” “D’you think I’m your Martin Ives?” demanded Ross, angrily. “I wish you were,” said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness. “Well, I’m not,” he said, “and I never heard of him. I’m new here—just came two days ago.” “Two days, eh?” said the stranger. “That was Wednesday, eh?” “I shouldn’t have told him that,” thought Ross, dismayed. “But, good Lord, I can’t remember to lie all the time! And, anyhow, what difference can it make—when I came here?” But he could see, from the stranger’s face, that it had made a difference. “You came here on Wednesday,” he continued. “I wonder, now, did you happen to see any one—”