“Well, sir, I watched the woman. She stopped in the passage for a minute, and then George, Squire de la Molle’s man, came out and spoke to her. I got quite close so as to hear, and he said, ‘You’d better get out of this.’ “‘Where to?’ she answered. ‘I’m afraid.’ “‘Back to London,’ he said, and gave her a sovereign, and she got up without a word and slunk off to the station followed by a mob of people. She is in the refreshment room now, but George sent word to say that they ought not to serve her with any drink.” “What time does the next train go—7.15, does it not?” said Mr. Quest. “Yes, sir.” “Well, go back to the station and keep an eye upon that woman, and when the time comes get me a first-class return ticket to London. I shall go up myself and give her in charge there. Here is some money,” and he gave him a five-pound note, “and look here, Jones, you need not trouble about the change.” “Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” said Jones, to whom, his salary being a guinea a week, on which he supported a wife and family, a gift of four pounds was sudden wealth. “Don’t thank me, but do as I tell you. I will be down at the station at 7.10. Meet me outside and give me the ticket. That will do.” When Jones had gone Mr. Quest sat down to think. So George had loosed this woman on him, and that was the meaning of his mysterious warnings. How did he find her? That did not matter, he had found her, and in revenge for the action taken against the de la Molle family had brought her here to denounce him. It was cleverly managed, too. Mr. Quest reflected to himself that he should never have given the man credit for the brains. Well, that was what came of underrating people.