“Me!” said John Thomas. “Why however should I come?” “Why not?” But the Cornishman smiled with that peculiar sceptical smile. They reached town at length, over the moors and down the long hill. John Thomas was always late. Somers went about doing his shopping--and then met Ann at an eating house. John Thomas was to have been there too. But he failed them. Somers walked about the Cornish seaport--he knew it now--and by sight he too was known, and execrated. Yet the tradespeople were always so pleasant and courteous to him. And it was such a sunny day. The town was buzzing with a story. Two German submarine officers had come into the town, dressed in clothes they had taken from an English ship they had sunk. They had stayed a night at the Mounts Bay Hotel. And two days later they had told the story to some fisherman whose fishing boat they stopped. They had shown the incredulous fisherman the hotel bill. Then they had sunk the fishing boat, sending the three fishermen ashore in the row-boat. John Thomas, the chatterbox, should have been at the stables at five. He was an endless gossip, never by any chance punctual. Somers and Ann waited till six--all the farmers drove out home, theirs was the last trap. “Buryan’s trap--always the last,” said the ostler. It became dark--the shops were all closing--it was night. And now the town, so busy at noon and all the afternoon, seemed cold, stony, deserted, with the wind blowing down its steep street. Nearly seven, and still no John Thomas. Ann was furious, but she knew him. Somers was more quiet: but he knew that this was a sort of deliberate insult on John Thomas’ part, and that he must never trust him again. It was well after seven when the fellow came--smiling with subtle malevolence and excusing himself so easily. “I shall never come with you again,” said Somers, quietly. “I should think not, Mr Somers,” cried Ann. It was a two hours’ drive home--a long climb to the dark stretch of the moors--then across the moors in the cold of the night, to the steep, cliff-like descent on the north, where church-town lay, and the sea beyond. As they drew near to the north descent, the home face, and the darkness was below them, Somers suddenly said: “I don’t think I shall ever drive this way again.” “Don’t you? Why, what makes you say that?” cried the facile John Thomas. Past nine o’clock as they came down the rocky road and saw the yellow curtain of the cottage glowing. Poor Harriet. Somers was stiff with cold as he rose to jump down. “I’ll come down for my parcels later,” he said. Easier to take them out at the farm, and he must fetch the milk. Harriet opened the door. “At last you’ve come,” she said. “Something has happened, Lovat!” One of John Thomas’ sisters came out too--she had come up with Mrs Somers out of sympathy. “What?” he said. And up came all the fear.