She came to a halt a few yards past the house in question, and got out of the car, Mr. Priestley following her politely in over the side and out through the door. They approached the house and tried the front-door. It was locked. Over their heads an inn-sign creaked, but no life was visible. The windows were black masses and no sound could be heard. His heart bumping strangely, Mr. Priestley rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang it again. Then he knocked, loudly. A window above his head opened and a large voice asked him what he wanted. Somewhat apologetically Mr. Priestley intimated that he would like a little nourishment. Without any signs of apology the large voice told him very plainly that he could not have any, that couldn’t he see the place was closed, and what did he think he was doing, knocking respectable people up at that hour? Before Mr. Priestley could reply, the window was closed with a bang of finality. “So now,” said Mr. Priestley with unabated optimism, “we’d better try somewhere else.” They tried a little farther down the road. The village in which they had now discovered themselves to be, possessed, as do all self-respecting villages, one public-house to every three private ones. There were six houses in the village, and an inn at each end. They repeated the procedure at the second one. They went on repeating it. “I’m all in favour of early hours for our rural population,” observed Laura with some feeling, as Mr. Priestley beat his fifth tattoo on the door, “but this seems to me to be overdoing it.” And her teeth chattered slightly for the night was getting cold, as early April nights will. She began to think rather longingly of her snug little bed, now some thirty odd miles away, and in an unknown direction. Mr. Priestley, who had been introducing some pleasing variations on his solo on the front door (an unmusical instrument at the best of times) by a few tasteful effects in bell-ringing, now added to his orchestra the human larynx. “Hi!” chanted Mr. Priestley. “Hi! Ho! Oi!” The reply was speedy, if not all that could be desired. It took the form of a pitcher of cold water and it was directed with equal accuracy at both the musician and his attendant. “Well, I’ll be _damned_!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, and the intensity of his feelings may be gauged from the fact that this was the first expletive he had employed during the whole of this memorable evening. “Tl break the door down after that. I’ll—I’ll——” “Perhaps that’ll learn you to stop your monkey-tricks, Joe Pearson,” observed an irate female voice, not without a certain satisfaction. Once more a window was forcibly closed. “I’m drenched,” said Laura, quite calmly. “Are you?” Her casual tone impressed Mr. Priestley. She might have been remarking that the evenings were beginning to draw out now. He began to see how this young woman had risen to such an eminent height in her profession.