Both Ella and her lover were engaged in intently examining the latter's machine, looking very grave, and exchanging exclamations of despair. Kennedy opened a bag of tools and, with a cigarette in his mouth, commenced an imaginary repair, with one eye upon the adjacent house. This lasted for about a quarter-of-an-hour. In the meantime a woman, evidently the farmer's wife, had come out to view the strangers, and had returned indoors. "I think it's now about time we might go in," the air-pilot whispered to his companion, whereupon both of them entered the gate and passed up the rutty drive to the house. "I wonder if you could lend me a heavy hammer?" asked the motor-cyclist in distress of the pleasant, middle-aged woman who opened the door. "Why, certainly, sir. Would the coal-hammer do?" she asked. "Fine!" was the man's reply. "I'm so sorry to trouble you, but I've broken down, and I'm on my way to London." "I'm very sorry, sir," exclaimed the woman, who fetched a heavy hammer from her kitchen. "Would the young lady care to come in and wait?" "Oh, thanks. It's awfully good of you," said Ella. "The fact is I am a little fagged, and if I may sit down I shall be so grateful." "Certainly, miss. Just come in both of you for a moment," and she led the way into a homely well-furnished room with a great open hearth where big logs were burning with a pleasant smell of smouldering beech. "What a comfortable room you have here!" Kennedy remarked, looking at the thick Turkey carpet upon the floor, and the carved writing-table in the window. "Yes, sir. This is a model dairy-farm. It belongs to Mr Anderson-James, who lives in Tunbridge Wells, and who comes here for week-ends sometimes, and for the shooting. I expect him here to-night. My husband farms for him, and I look after the place as housekeeper." "A model farm!" exclaimed Ella. "Oh! I'd so much like to see it. I wonder if your husband would allow me?" "He'd be most delighted, miss." "Stevenson is my name, and this is my friend Mr Kershaw," Ella said, introducing herself. "My name is Dennis," replied the comely farmer's wife with a pleasant smile. "This is called Furze Down Farm, and Mr Anderson-James is a solicitor in Tunbridge Wells. So now you know all about us," and the woman, in her big white apron, laughed merrily. Kennedy and the girl exchanged glances. "Well," he said, "I'll go out and try to put the machine right. It won't take very long, I hope. If I can't--well, we must go back by train. Where's the nearest station, Mrs Dennis?" "Well--Paddock Wood is about two miles," was her reply. "If you can't get your motor right my husband will put it into a cart and drive you over there. It's the direct line to London." "Thanks so much," he said, and went out, leaving Ella to rest in the cosy, well-furnished room which the solicitor from Tunbridge Wells occupied occasionally through the week-ends.