By half-past four, therefore, he was back at The Plâs, ready with his cheery voice to give Mr. Clutterbuck energy for the evening's business. He suggested a run round in one of the motors before going straight into town; there was a fine heartening wind from the south-west, with heavy clouds; it was just the afternoon to take an hour or two of the air before turning in after dark to London and duty. The suggestion was excellent, as were most of Charlie's suggestions, and Mr. Clutterbuck, carefully rolling up the speech that Mr. Bailey had written for him, and thrusting it into his breast pocket, put on his great fur coat and gloves, and ordered one of the smaller cars to come round. "Nothing braces one up like a sharp bit of motoring before a speech," said Mr. Clutterbuck, as he got into the open Renault. Charlie Fitzgerald was occupied in hauling away at the barrel organ in front of the radiator. He made faces as he did so. Mr. Clutterbuck was rubbing his hands nervously and glancing at the sky. "It looks dark," he went on, still rubbing his hands, "but I dare say nothing will come of it." Charlie Fitzgerald, with a face more hideous than any yet drawn, gave a final tug at the starting handle and the machine began to throb. He jumped up by Mr. Clutterbuck's side and steered slowly past the lodge into the Croydon Road, while Mr. Clutterbuck kept on harping at his side upon the advantages of a sharp spin before a speech, and the doubtfulness of the weather. They fell into the main road and turned sharply to the left. "Taking us far afield?" said Mr. Clutterbuck cheerfully. Nothing pleased him more than the experience of his secretary in the driving of a car. "Godalming, eh?" Charlie Fitzgerald spoke for the first time: "Something of that kind," he said. "Just a long run.... We'll go further than Godalming; we'll go right away round, and come into town from the north and west by the Harrow Road. It's much better like that; we won't get any of the slums. Let's eat somewhere in the country." Mr. Clutterbuck was delighted. His honest old soul and his still more honest old stomach could not quite forget the honest old hours of high teas and a snack later on. They shot round the base of the hills, missed a child in Dorking, ran into Guildford, had a splendid zizz along the Hog's Back, and then turned sharp round on to the Frimley Road, passed Penny Hill, and on towards Virginia Water. By the time they reached Staines it was dark. All the way Mr. Clutterbuck had spoken with increasing joy, and Charlie Fitzgerald, in spite of his interest in the driving, had been very human to him. Now the dark had fallen, however, it was necessary that he should keep silence while he picked his way across country towards Harrow.