"Very good," said the strange voice. "I can carry three or four passengers if you like. There's plenty of room--of course, if you're by yourself, so much the better. I shall expect you at three o'clock. The weather's beautiful." The door opened and she crouched against the wall so that the opening door hid her, and heard Pinto call the man back by name. "Cartwright!" she repeated. "Cartwright. A mile out of Bromley on the main road. Three lamps in a red triangle!" She was going to slip up the stairs, but the door had closed on Cartwright, and making a swift decision she passed the box and came again into the vestibule of the theatre. Presently she saw the man appear. She guessed it was he by the smile on his face, and when he said "Good night" to the attendant at the barrier she recognised his voice. She followed him but let him get outside the theatre before she spoke to him. Then suddenly she laid her hand on his arm: "Mr. Cartwright!" He looked round into her smiling face in surprise, taking off his hat. "That is my name," he said with a smile. "I don't remember----" "Oh, I'm a friend of Mr. Silva," she said. "I've heard a lot about you." "Oh, indeed?" said he. He was a little puzzled because he thought that the projected flight was a dead secret; and she guessed his thoughts. "You won't tell Mr. Silva I told you? He begged me not to repeat it to anybody, even to you. But he's leaving to-morrow morning, isn't he?" He nodded. "I know an awful lot," she said, and then: "Won't you come and have supper with me? I'm starving!" Cartwright hesitated. He had not expected so charming a diversion, and really there was no reason why he should not accept the invitation. He was not due at Bromley until early in the morning, and the girl was young and pretty and a friend of his employer. It was she who hailed the taxi and they drove to a select little restaurant at the back of Shaftesbury Avenue. "You're not seeing Pinto--I mean Mr. Silva--again to-night, are you?" she asked. "No, I'm not seeing him until--well, until I see him," he smiled again. "Well, I want to tell you something." He thought she was charmingly embarrassed, and in truth she was, to invent the story she had to tell. "You know why Mr. Silva is leaving England in such a hurry?" He nodded. She wished she knew too, or had the slightest inkling of the yarn which Pinto had spun. And then the man enlightened her. "Political," he said. "Exactly; political," she said easily. "But you will realise that it is not necessarily he himself who is making this flight." "I did understand that he was making the flight himself," said the aviator in surprise. "But"--she was desperate now--"has he never told you of the other gentleman who was coming, the other political person who really must go to Portugal at once?" "No, he certainly did not," said Cartwright; "he told me distinctly that he was going himself." The girl leaned back in her chair, baffled, but thoughtful.