“I was going to catch the nine-ten from Liverpool Street. He lives on the high ground above Brentwood, in Essex.” Vera leaned across the table. With her soft white arms stretched out before her, she made an appealing picture. “Why not let me drive you down in the car? Then we three could talk the whole thing over. _Do_ let me help!” “By Jove!” exclaimed Desmond. “That’s rather an idea! But look here, you’ll have to promise to be very discreet about it!” “My dear!” she cried joyously, “I’ll be as mute as the silent wife. That’s settled, then? Now I’m going to take a taxi to Curzon Street and change my frock. I’ll be back here with the car in half an hour if you’ll wait for me in the hall.” The thought of a long drive through the night with such a charming girl as Vera Slade seemed to please Desmond Okewood, for he was smiling happily to himself as he sat in the “Nineveh” lounge awaiting her return. Within forty minutes the hall porter fetched him out. The purple cabriolet stood throbbing at the door, Vera, in a _chic_ little felt _cloche_ and a blanket coat, at the wheel. It was a damp, raw night, and in the Mile End Road the tram-lines were so greasy that the girl, without hesitation, turned off into a network of side streets. “I know my way round here,” she explained. “I used to drive a car in these parts during the war.” But at last she slowed down, peering out of the open window at her side. “I think I must have missed the turning just now,” she said. “This doesn’t seem to be right!” In front of them, through the rain-spotted driving-glass, the blank wall of a _cul-de-sac_ was discernible. Vera stopped the car. She was busy with the gears. Suddenly the doors on either side were plucked violently open. Desmond caught a glimpse of the girl torn bodily out from behind the driving-wheel, then a heavy woollen muffler fell over his face from behind and strong arms pulled him backwards. A voice whispered in his ear: “Not a sound, or you’re a dead man!” But he was unable to speak; indeed, he was almost choking with the thick cloth that invisible hands thrust into his mouth. He felt the sharp rasp of cords on his wrists and ankles; his eyes were blindfolded; he was raised up; for an instant the raw night air struck chill on his cheek, then he was thrown down unceremoniously into another car, which immediately began to move. For the best part of an hour, so it seemed to him, the journey lasted. The frequent changing of gears and the many stops told him that they were going through traffic. It meant, therefore, that they had returned to London. Then came a halt longer than the rest. He heard the car door open; he was once more lifted and carried upstairs, or so he judged by the laboured breathing of his unseen bearers. He heard a key turn in a lock; he was dropped in a chair. Then the gag was pulled out of his mouth and the bandage removed from his eyes. Before him, at a low desk, The Man with the Clubfoot was sitting.