“I cannot imagine anything less likely,” he said, “than your meeting her.” CHAPTER III Cheynel Gardens is one of those very select thoroughfares that no cab-driver has ever found without the assistance of a local guide. Taximen have “heard of it,” dimly remember having dropped a fare there at some time or other; but where it is, only the police and the postmen know. Often people who live in Cheynel Gardens have only the haziest idea whether they are in Mayfair or Marylebone. Gordon occupied a corner house that had a garden, probably the garden after which the thoroughfare was named, for there was no other. If a garden can be so called that consists of a twelve by ten paved courtyard occupied by two large bushes in tubs. It was the last house on the left as you turned in from Brook Street, a handsome, sober pile of red brick and yellow sandstone, with a big study to which stained-glass windows gave the appearance of a well-furnished chapel. His study was indeed a holy place, for none entered without invitation. It had two doors, one of thick oak, one of deadening baize, so that no sound might disturb Gordon’s close and careful scrutiny of _The Economist_, which, with the _Insurance Review_, formed his light reading. By day he perused _The Times_, by night he read heavy studies in sociology, or, if he were tired, _Zur Genealogie der Moral_--Nietzsche being one of his favourite authors. He descended from the cab that brought him home, gave the driver a ten per cent. tip worked out to the nearest penny, and erring on his own side, and walked slowly up the steps. The door opened instantly. It was part of the daily ritual. Trenter took his hat, his walking-stick and his gloves, and Gordon said: “No letters?” If Trenter had said no, the ritual would have been interrupted. “Yes, sir, and----” No need to say more. Gordon was staring at four immense trunks that almost completely covered the floor space of the hall. Three of them were conspicuously labelled “Not wanted on voyage.” The fourth had a big red “Cabin” pasted on its side. “What--on--earth--are--these?” asked Gordon breathlessly. “The young lady arrived this afternoon, sir.” Trenter was all a-twitter. “The young lady arrived--which young lady, may I ask?” “Miss Ford, sir.” Gordon’s forehead wrinkled. He had heard the name in some connection. Ford ... Ford? It was familiar. “No, sir--Miss Diana Ford from Australia.” The cousin! Mr. Selsbury inclined his head graciously. The instincts of hospitality were not entirely atrophied, and the Selsburys were a race of courtly men. “Will you tell Miss Ford I am returned and will be glad to see her in The Study?” Trenter’s face twitched. “She’s in The Study, sir,” he almost pleaded. “I told her that nobody ever went when you were away and that I kept it locked.” Gordon was taken aback. It is disconcerting to a host to find his hospitality anticipated and taken as a right.