They spoke together. She got the lead then. “It was kind of her to let you know at once. But she’s always kind, isn’t she? I did so want you to come, and make friends with me before you’re married, and it will be very soon now, won’t it? Oh, but do let me give you some tea.” “No tea, thank you.” “Won’t you? Well, please ring the bell. I don’t know how men can exist without tea. But most of them don’t now, do they? You’re almost unique, you know. I suppose it’s the penalty of greatness.” “I came round to say that Miss Amber won’t be able to dine with you, Lady Chantry.” It was a moment before she answered. “But that is too bad. She told me she was sure you could find a day.” “She can’t come,” said Reggie sharply. “The man has spoken,” she laughed. “Oh, of course, she mustn’t go behind that.” He was given a keen mocking glance. “And can’t you come either, Mr. Fortune?” “I have a great deal of work. Lady Chantry. It’s come rather unexpectedly.” “Indeed, you do look worried. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you ought to take a rest, a long rest.” A servant came in. “Won’t you really have some tea?” “No, thank you. Goodbye, Lady Chantry.” He went home and rang up Lomas. Lomas, like the father of Baby Bunting, had gone a-hunting. Lomas was in Leicestershire. Superintendent Bell replied: Did Bell know if they had anything new about the unknown murderer? “Inquiries are proceeding, sir,” said Superintendent Bell. “Damn it, Bell, I’m not the House of Commons. Have you got anything?” “Not what you’d call definite, sir, no.” “You’ll say that on the Day of Judgment,” said Reggie. It was on the next day that he found a telegram waiting for him when he came home to dress for dinner: Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come sending car to meet evening trains. Warnham Fernhurst Blackover. He scrambled into the last carriage of the half-past six as it drew out of Waterloo. Mrs. Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, one of which throws out towards it a feeble and spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie arrived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in his emptiness, on the dimly-lit platform of Blackover. The porter of all work who took his ticket thought there was a car outside. In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: “Do you come from Fernhurst?” he called, and the small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat. They dashed off into the night, climbing up by narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. The chauffeur was getting down.