Shaken to the core he came to the fence, and spent a weary hour in groping up and down, trying to find an outlet. At length, when he had almost given up hope, and was trying to steel his soul against the exposure of the morrow, he reached a tree whose branches overhung the fence. It was more than thirty years since, as a boy, he had climbed a tree in sport; who could have foreseen that now, a man of bulk, he would be forced to attempt the feat in the interests of business? And his right hand was so desperately painful! Luckily the trunk was gnarled and a branch hung low. He tried to heave himself up, and his hat fell off. He picked it up and shied it impatiently over the fence. Then he tried again, and felt in the extremity of despair when he heard the _oosh_ of tearing silk. Alas! for his new frock-coat! But he was at least safely on the bough. He worked himself along it, dreading lest it should snap, and conscious of the inconvenience of fourteen stone. Happily he was now on the right side of the fence. He dropped, and alighted in a bed of nettles. He got up, found his hat, mechanically brushed it with his sleeve, and set it on his head. “Ach! Ich unglücklicher!” he sighed as he set off up the road. CHAPTER III—TOM MAKES EXPERIMENTS The information given to Herr Schwab by the Midfont station-master was accurate up to a certain point. Mr. Greatorex had indeed constituted himself the beneficent patron of Tom Dorrell, educated him, entertained him at Midfont House, and built for him a workshop in the grounds. So far the station-master was right. But when he added that Tom was working at a new motor-car, he stated a hypothesis, not a fact. About a year before this time, when Tom came to Midfont House to spend a month’s holiday, he brought with him a small model of an aerial machine on which he had been quietly working in leisure moments. He showed it to Mr. Greatorex. “Very pretty,” said the worthy merchant, examining the toy; “but it won’t _go_.” “Oh yes it will,” said Tom. “See!” They were in Mr. Greatorex’s study at the time. Tom poised the model on his left hand, released a spring, and the little aeroplane, with a whizz and a hum, soared across the room, and, before it could be stopped, dashed against the glass door of a bookcase and shivered it to atoms. “I’m awfully sorry,” said Tom contritely, picking up the machine and silencing it. “What _are_ you doing, John?” said Mrs. Greatorex, opening the door. “What a terrible mess!” she added, surveying the litter on the floor. “It shall be swept up, my dear,” said Mr. Greatorex. “You can’t make omelets without breaking _eggs_, my love.” Mrs. Greatorex looked a little puzzled. “Of course not, my dear,” she said after a moment. Then with a deprecating smile she went away. Mr. Greatorex locked the door. “Now, Tom,” he said, “just _explain_, will you? Begin at the beginning; I want to _know_, you know.”