A faint smile came over the gentle face, set in its frame of fur. "Poor lass," I cried. "What a fool I am. Give me her hand, and I'Il help her up." "But what about Falcon?" "The chauffeur?" She nodded. I thought for a moment, then I looked for the companion. There, happily, were tablets and a pencil. "We'll write him a note," said I. "Wait a minute." With difficulty I scrawled a few words. Then: "How will this do? Falcon, I have been found and taken to shelter. If possible, bring the car to 'The Three Bulls,' Steeple Abbas, by noon tomorrow. Will you sign it?" I put the pencil into her hand and held the lamp for her to see. She wrote quickly. When she had finished, I laid the tablets on the seat, where they must be seen at once. When I looked at her again, I saw she was smiling. "So there's something in the nickname, after all?" "What nickname?" said I. "Red Nat?" "No. 'Gentleman of the road,' Adam." "Thank you, Eve. If I could feel my mouth, I'd kiss your hand for that. As it is--" I helped her to her feet and set the lamp on the front seat. Then I bade her stand in the doorway while I wrapped the rug about her. "I'm afraid I can't dig you a pathway, so I'm going to carry you to my car. I used to be able to delve once--" "When Who was a gentleman?" "Exactly. And you span. But I'm out of practice now. Besides, I left my niblick in London. Come along. Don't be frightened if I slip. I shan't go down. Yes, I'll come back for your dressing-case." The next moment she was in my arms, and three minutes later we were making for Fallow at nearer thirty than twenty miles an hour. As we ran into the village, I heard the church clock chime the half-hour. Half-past four. We had come well. A moment later I had stopped at the old inn's door. Except for a flickering light, visible between the curtains of the Cromwell room, the place was in darkness. I clambered stiffly out and felt for the key I had asked for. A Yale lock in the studded door! Never mind. This door is only a reproduction. The original probably shuts off some pantry from some servants' hall in New York City. However. When I had switched on a course of lights, I went back to the car and opened the door. Have I said that it was a cabriolet? "Eve," said I. No answer, I took the lamp once more and flooded the car with light. In the far corner, still wrapped in the rugs, my lady lay fast asleep. With some difficulty I got her into my arms. On the threshold I met Thomas, our waiter. He had little on but a coat and trousers, and there was slumber in his eyes. "I didn't wait up, sir," he explained, "but, hearing the car, I just come down to see you'd got everything. Miss Mansel asleep, sir?" I stared at him for a moment and then looked down at the charge in my arms. A corner of the rug had fallen over her face. Thomas, naturally enough, thought it was Jill.