“I keep this here in case of emergency,” he explained to her. “One never knows when one might need a spare car.” Exactly why he should need a spare car in Chiswick he did not attempt to explain. Avoiding the Great West Road, he took the longer route through Brentford. Rain was falling heavily by the time they reached Hounslow. She was so grateful to him for all the services he had rendered, and which, though she was unconscious of the fact, he had particularized, that she did not resist his suggestion that they should go on to Oxford. She wondered why until they were on the outskirts of the town, and then he explained with a little smile that Johnny had been transferred to Oxford Gaol that morning. “I kept this as a surprise for you,” he said. “Only about three people in London know, and I was most anxious that you should not tell.” They went into a teashop on the other side of the city, and she was puzzled why he should prefer this rather poverty-stricken little café to an hotel, but thought it was an act of consideration on his part--part of the general scheme for avoiding reporters. They lingered over tea until she grew a little restless. “We’ll go to the prison and make inquiries,” he told her. Actually they did go to the prison, and he descended and rang the bell. When he came back he was grinning ruefully. “He was released half an hour ago. My cousin’s car picked him up. We can go on.” It was getting dark now and the rain continued to fall steadily. They took another route towards London, passed through a little town which she thought she recognized as Marlow, turned abruptly from the main road, and as abruptly again up a dark and neglected carriage drive. She had a glimpse of the sheen of a stagnant backwater on her left, and then the car drew up before a forbidding looking door, and, stepping down, Clive Desboyne opened the door with his key. “Here we are,” he said pleasantly, gave her his hand, and, before she realized what had happened, she was in a gloomy hall smelling of damp and decay. The door thundered close behind her. “Where are we… this isn’t the place,” she said tremulously, and at that moment all her old suspicions, all her old fears of the man returned. “It is quite the place,” he said. From the pocket of his mackintosh he took an electric lamp and switched it on. The house was furnished, if rotting carpets and dust-covered chairs meant anything. He held her firmly by the arm, walked her along the passage, then, opening a door, pushed her inside. She thought there was no window, but found afterwards that it was shuttered. The room was fairly clean; there was a bed, a table and a small oil stove. On a sideboard were a number of packets of foodstuffs. “Keep quiet and don’t make a fuss,” he said. Striking a match, he lit a paraffin lamp that stood on the table. “What does this mean?” she asked. Her face was white and haggard. He did not answer immediately, and then: