‘What are you going to Dunstable Station for?’ asked Richard. ‘I’m for Lunnon--horse sale at the Elephant and Castle. Perhaps you know the Elephant and Castle, sir?’ ‘I’ll give you a lift to London, if you like,’ said Richard, seizing the chance of companionship, of which he was badly in need. ‘We shall get there quite as soon as your train.’ Mr. Puddephatt eyed the car suspiciously. He had no sympathy with motor-cars. ‘Are you afraid?’ asked Richard. ‘Am I afraid?’ he repeated. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I ain’t afraid. But I’d sooner be behind a three-year-old than behind one of them things. But I’ll try it and see how I like it. And thank ye, sir.’ So Mr. Puddephatt journeyed with Richard to London. Perhaps it was fate that induced Mr. Puddephatt, when they had discussed the weather, horses, motor-cars, steam-ploughs, wine, parish councils, London, and daily papers, to turn the conversation on to the subject of the Craigs. Mr. Puddephatt had had many and various dealings with the Craigs, and he recounted to Richard the whole of them, one after another, in detail. It seemed, from his narrative, that he had again and again, from sheer good-nature, saved the Craigs from the rapacity and unscrupulousness of the village community. ‘Nice young lady, that Miss Teresa,’ observed Mr. Puddephatt. ‘Yes,’ said Richard. By this time they had passed through St. Albans and were well on the way to Edgware. ‘They do say,’ said Mr. Puddephatt, leaning back luxuriously against the cushions--‘they do say as she isn’t his daughter--not rightly.’ ‘They say what?’ asked Richard quietly, all alert, but not choosing to seem so. Mr. Puddephatt reaffirmed his statement. ‘Who says that?’ asked Richard. ‘Oh!’ said Mr. Puddephatt, ‘I dare say it isn’t true. But it’s gotten about the village. Ye never know how them tales begin. I dare say it isn’t true. Bless ye, there’s lots o’ tales.’ ‘Oh, indeed!’ Richard remarked sagaciously. ‘Ay!’ said Mr. Puddephatt, filling his pipe, ‘lots o’ tales. That night as she ran away from the farm, and Mrs. Bridget had to fetch her back from the White Horse---- Everybody said as how the old man ill-treated her, daughter or no daughter.’ ‘When was that? ‘A few weeks back,’ said Mr. Puddephatt laconically. This was all he would say. ‘It’s a queer world, Mr. Puddephatt,’ said Richard aloud. To himself he said: ‘Then perhaps she isn’t involved with her father--if he is her father.’ At length they reached the suburbs of London and had to moderate their speed. As they wound in and out through the traffic of Kilburn, Richard’s eye chanced to catch the sign of the British and Scottish Bank. He drew up opposite the mahogany doors of the bank and, leaving Mr. Puddephatt in charge of the car, entered. It was turned ten o’clock. He felt fairly certain that Raphael Craig had not left Queen’s Farm, but he wanted to convince himself that the bank manager was not always so impeccably prompt at business as some people said.