“I drove down. I had a sort of feeling in my mind that something was wrong. Then I met a man who’d seen the builder, and he told me about the little old fellow. Until then I didn’t know that he was in the boat, and I came along to make inquiries. For some reason, which I can’t understand, he no sooner saw me than he pulled a gun and let fly at me, and, turning, went like mad through those bushes.” “Have you a gun?” asked Mr. Reeder. Desboyne smiled. “No, I don’t carry such things.” “In that case it would be foolish to pursue my ancient enemy. Let one of the Buckingham Constabulary carry on the good work. Is your car anywhere handy?” There was a road apparently within fifty yards. “By Jove!” said Desboyne suddenly. “I left it outside the gates of an empty house. I wonder whether that’s the place where the old bird went--and whether my car is still there?” It was there, in the drive of a deserted house: the two-seater coupe which had so excited the disgust of poor Johnny Southers. With some difficulty Clive started it up, and the action recalled something to him. “Did we leave the engines of that boat running?” he asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind I’ll go back and turn them off; then I’ll notify the police, and I’ll send a man to bring the _Zaira_ into Maidenhead.” He was gone ten minutes. Mr. Reeder had an opportunity of walking round the car and admiring it. Rain had fallen in the night: he made this interesting discovery before Desboyne returned. “We’ll run up to Marlow and I’ll get a man to go down and collect the boat,” he said as he climbed in. “I’ve never heard anything more amazing. Tell me exactly what happened to you?” Mr. Reeder smiled sadly. “You will pardon me if I do not?” he asked gently. “The truth is, I have been asked by a popular newspaper to write my reminiscences, and I want to save every personal experience for that important volume.” He would talk about other subjects, however; for example, of the fortunate circumstance that Desboyne’s car was still there though it was within reach of the enemy. “I’ve never met him before. I hope I’ll never meet him again,” said Desboyne. “But I think he can be traced. Naturally, I don’t want to go into court against him. I think it’s the most ridiculous experience, to be shot at without replying.” “Why bother?” asked Mr. Reeder. “I personally never go into court to gratify a private vendetta, though there is a possibility that in the immediate future I may break the habit of years!” He got down at the boathouse and was a silent listener whilst Clive Desboyne rang up a Twickenham number and described the exact location of the boat. “They’ll collect it,” he said as he hung up. “Now, Mr. Reeder, what am I to do about the police?” Mr. Reeder shook his head. “I shouldn’t report it,” he said. “They’d never understand.”