Mr. Priestley swallowed. “Of course, there—there is something in that,” he conceded, endeavouring to assume the air of one debating an interesting point. “Oh, yes, I quite see that.” He cast a hunted glance round. The Adventure was beginning to assume the aspect less of an adventure than a nightmare. Protection! There was certainly one person at their table who required all the protection that could be got, but it was not the one at his side; appearances, Mr. Priestley reflected wildly, _are_ deceptive. The sooner, in fact, that he got away from this promising young criminal, the better. Should he make a plain bolt for it at once, or—— “Well, is there anything else you want to ask me?” the girl’s voice broke into his agonised thoughts. “Because, if not, hadn’t we better be making a move? We don’t want to be _too_ late getting back to London, do we? I’ll pay the waiter, of course, if you will call him.” And she began to refasten the fur at her throat and collect her various impedimenta by way of a hint that was anything but mistakable. “After all, I can tell you the details just as well in the car going down, can’t I?” she added. Mr. Priestley moistened his dry lips. The second half-bottle was very little in evidence by this time. “Er—Miss—er—Miss—er——” “Spettigue, I think you mean,” the girl rescued him gently. “Didn’t you get that letter I wrote you at all, Mr. Mullins?” “Oh, yes,” Mr. Priestley-Mullins replied hastily. “Yes, of course, Miss—er—Spettigue. But I don’t—that is——” The girl came as near to showing impatience as a creature so demurely angelic could. “It’s half-past nine already,” she said plaintively. “We really must not waste any more time, Mr. Mullins. Isn’t that our waiter over there? Do please call him.” And she fixed Mr. Priestley with a look that should have caused even milder men than he to write fiercely to _The Times_ about the dragon-shortage in these degenerate days, and can’t something be done about it? She also rose to her feet with a decision that left no room for further delay. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Mr. Priestley followed suit. Somebody (he never knew who) paid the waiter, and they made their way out into the open air again. “The car’s in a garage up in Maida Vale,” remarked the girl. “We’d better take the Underground.” “I think, perhaps a taxi——?” suggested Mr. Priestley, in whose harassed brain a plan was now beginning to form. The girl looked at him with appealing helplessness. “I do so _much_ prefer the Underground,” she said wistfully. “It’s so much safer.” They took the Underground.