In three minutes the new electric car was at the front-door. Mr. Raphael Craig had gone into the house to fetch his bag. He came out with a rather large brown portmanteau, which from the ease with which he carried it, was apparently empty. The car was in the form of as mall wagonette, with room for two at the front. Mr. Craig put down the bag in the after-part of the car, where Teresa was already sitting, and sprang to Richard’s side on the box-seat As he did so the bag slipped, and Richard seized it to prevent it from falling. He was astounded to find it extremely heavy. By exerting all his strength he could scarcely lift it, yet Mr. Craig had carried it with ease. The bank manager must be a Hercules, notwithstanding his years! The five and a half miles to Leighton Buzzard Station, on the London and North-Western main line, was accomplished in twenty minutes, and Mr. Raphael Craig pronounced himself satisfied with the new car’s performance. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr. Redgrave,’ he said, ‘you might meet me here with this car at two-forty-five this afternoon--that is, if you can spare the time. Meanwhile, perhaps the Panhard will be mended, and my daughter will entertain you as best she can.’ Mr. Craig seemed to take Richard’s affirmative for granted. Stepping off the car, he threw a kiss to Teresa, picked up the bag as though it had been a feather, and disappeared into the station. ‘May I drive home?’ Teresa asked meekly, and Richard explained the tricks of the mechanism. Speeding through the country lanes, with this beautiful girl by his side, Richard was conscious of acute happiness. He said to himself that he had never been so happy in the whole of his life. He wished that he could forget the scene in the chalk-pit, the mysterious crash, Teresa’s lies, the suicide of Featherstone, and every other suspicious circumstance. He wished he could forget Mr. Simon Lock and his own mission. But he could not forget, and his conscience began to mar his happiness. What was he doing in the household of the Craigs? Was he not a spy? Was he not taking advantage of Teresa’s innocent good-nature? Bah! it was his trade to be a spy, for what other term could be employed in describing a private inquiry agent? And as for Teresa’s innocence, probably she was not so innocent after all. The entire household was decidedly queer, unusual, disconcerting. It decidedly held a secret, and it was the business of him, Richard Redgrave, specialist, to unearth that secret. Simon Lock was one of the smartest men in England, and his doubts as to the _bona fides_ of Mr. Raphael Craig seemed in a fair way to be soon justified. ‘To work, then,’ said Richard resolutely. ‘Don’t you like Micky?’ the girl asked, with an enchanting smile. ‘Micky is delightful,’ said Richard; ‘I suppose you have had him for many years. He has the look of an old and tried retainer.’