“Very pretty,” said Macalister. “When he’s fired from the Guards he should do well in the movies.” CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF I have come to the conclusion that British honour is pretty good stock-in-trade. Macalister accepted my word that no rescue by force would be attempted. And, if Macalister accepted it, I think my promise must be a gilt-edged security. At twenty minutes before midnight--the time I had arranged to set out--Reid’s was moderately excited. The absence of Nanette could no longer be concealed in view of the fact that her worthy foster-parents had created something of a hubbub following her departure from the Casino. Hotel servants had been talking, too. The arrangement had the charm of simplicity. In a car containing only a chauffeur and myself, I was to follow the Farman. Any support must be not less than five hundred yards in the rear. “But,” I had objected, “although you trust _me_, I don’t trust _you_. I might be held up.” “You can arm yourself if you like,” Macalister had conceded. “And you will have the driver. Your friends, too, will be close behind you.” I had hesitated, until: “Damn it!” he cried. “I want the goods! This deal is square!” I agreed when he spoke thus. Slowly, I was learning my man. O’Shea elected to follow alone. “They will stick to their bargain, Decies,” he said sadly. “We dare not take the risk, I admit; but Nanette is safe enough. They know how far they can go.” Past a curious group clustering around the hotel entrance, we walked out--Macalister, O’Shea, and myself. I watched a magnificent cigar being lighted in the Farman, wondering how and where Macalister found room to carry more than one at a time. Then we set forth upon our queer journey. The Farman led through the outskirts of Funchal, around the flank of the little town and out to that sea road which scales the frowning cliffs. I am never at my best on roads of this kind. A squat red lozenge in the glare of our headlights, the leading car, from time to time, would disappear over a precipice. Nothing would obstruct my view of starry sky and the still mirror of the ocean far below. Then, a hairpin turn in the dizzy path being negotiated, there ahead again the Farman would appear. So it went, up and up, around bend after bend, until the bumping and jolting told me that we had left the road, such as it was, and were digging a road of our own. We crept over a desolate dome of territory that must have been left behind when Atlantis sank. Upon our topping the crown of this blasted heath, I looked out ahead. I prayed that the brakes had been recently overhauled. A long, curving, rock-strewn slope swept gracefully down to a sheer edge. And perched close to the precipice like a lonely seafowl was a little, dirty white dwelling--hundreds of eerie feet above the sea, approached by no perceptible path. I exhausted my imagination in endeavouring to invent a reason why any human being should live there.