In the intervals of diving, Mr. Priestley had been debating this question with some anxiety. So far as he could see there was only one course open to them. It was a course which he did not choose with any degree of eager gladness, but he could find no other. What was in Mr. Priestley’s mind was the plain fact that for two people, linked together by an obviously official pair of handcuffs, to call in at the village blacksmith’s and request the use of a file was to invite suspicion—more, to stand up and loudly demand suspicion. However simple a village blacksmith may be expected to be, there are some things which become obtrusive to the most half-witted mind, and of these, handcuffs take pride of place. Naturally Mr. Priestley had cast about for a plausible story to explain away these awkward ornaments, but it is surprising how thin the most plausible story explanatory of handcuffs can sound. No; the thing to do was to stop ostensibly for some other reason, and to demand a file by way of an afterthought or make-weight. And where could the complement of a two-seater more reasonably stop than at a wayside hostelry, demanding food? To ask for a file in order to effect a minor adjustment to the car’s interior while the meal was being prepared, was the most natural thing in the world. Almost anybody can stop at a wayside hostelry and order a file with his dinner without incurring the slightest suspicion. Mr. Priestley communicated the sum of his reflections to his cuff-mate. To his relief she gave a ready assent. With some trepidation he went on to elaborate his theme. “And—er—touching the story we ought to have ready,” he went on with painful nonchalance, “I think it would be best if we pretended to be—that is, if it came to the point when it was advisable to—er—to be anything, so to speak—I think we had better—that is to say, I _feel_,” said Mr. Priestley with a good deal of earnestness, “that we should pretend to be—h’m!” “I give it up; what’s the answer?” remarked the young woman, hurriedly changing her gear. Mr. Priestley caught a crab and returned to the surface. “An—an eloping couple!” he gulped. “A—a honeymoon couple,” he amplified, “who have eloped.” Once again Mr. Priestley was charmed and relieved at the way in which his companion received his suggestions. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “What a brilliant idea! You mean, because we shall have to hold hands whenever any one’s looking at us?” “That’s right,” beamed Mr. Priestley, who had meant that very thing, but had not quite liked to say so. Mr. Priestley was a man of very delicate susceptibilities. “And look!” cried the girl, checking the car’s speed so abruptly that Mr. Priestley was all but thrown off his perch. “Look, isn’t this an inn just here? Yes, I’m sure it is. We’ll put our fortunes to the test this very moment.”