There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head from the sick woman, making his heart melt swiftly again. Then, dragging his limbs, he got out of the room and down the stairs. The landlord came after him. “I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the publican said, still laconic, but with his eyes dark and swift. “Ay, a’ right,” said Sutton blindly. He looked round for his cap, which he had all the time in his hand. Then he got out of doors. In a moment the uncle and nephew were in the car jolting on the level crossing. The elder man seemed as if something tight in his brain made him open his eyes wide, and stare. He held the steering wheel firmly. He knew he could steer accurately, to a hair’s breadth. Glaring fixedly ahead, he let the car go, till it bounded over the uneven road. There were three coal-carts in a string. In an instant the car grazed past them, almost biting the kerb on the other side. Sutton aimed his car like a projectile, staring ahead. He did not want to know, to think, to realise, he wanted to be only the driver of that quick taxi. The town drew near, suddenly. There were allotment-gardens with dark-purple twiggy fruit-trees and wet alleys between the hedges. Then suddenly the streets of dwelling-houses whirled close, and the car was climbing the hill, with an angry whirr,—up—up—till they rode out on to the crest and could see the tram-cars, dark-red and yellow, threading their way round the corner below, and all the traffic roaring between the shops. “Got anywhere to go?” asked Sutton of his nephew. “I was going to see one or two people.” “Come an’ have a bit o’ dinner with us,” said the other. Berry knew that his uncle wanted to be distracted, so that he should not think nor realise. The big man was running hard away from the horror of realisation. “All right,” Berry agreed. The car went quickly through the town. It ran up a long street nearly into the country again. Then it pulled up at a house that stood alone, below the road. “I s’ll be back in ten minutes,” said the uncle. The car went on to the garage. Berry stood curiously at the top of the stone stairs that led from the highroad down to the level of the house, an old stone place. The garden was dilapidated. Broken fruit-trees leaned at a sharp angle down the steep bank. Right across the dim grey atmosphere, in a kind of valley on the edge of the town, new suburb-patches showed pinkish on the dark earth. It was a kind of unresolved borderland. Berry went down the steps. Through the broken black fence of the orchard, long grass showed yellow. The place seemed deserted. He knocked, then knocked again. An elderly woman appeared. She looked like a housekeeper. At first she said suspiciously that Mr. Sutton was not in. “My uncle just put me down. He’ll be in in ten minutes,” replied the visitor. “Oh, are you the Mr. Berry who is related to him?” exclaimed the elderly woman. “Come in—come in.”